


Strength of Heart

by ResiGamerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ResiGamerGirl/pseuds/ResiGamerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, begins after season 2, likely to be OOC though I do my best, will contain slash-consensual, dubious, and noncon, OCs included. There will be angst, violence, friendship, beauty, etc. This will probably have it all by the time it's through. When Sherlock died, the world kept turning. Moriarty turns up alive, as does Sherlock. When John gets Sherlock back, it's all fine, really...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: When Sherlock Died

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First of all, thank you so much for reading my story. I have come to simply adore the BBC version of Sherlock of late, including Benedict and Martin, and thought I'd try my hand at some writing. Although I do see Holmes and Watson as a more soulmate/epic friendship deal personally, this story takes the pair further and into romance eventually. Don't think it's going to come easily though! Oh, and everything just gets so very complex. There will be loads of trouble for the boys, both new and previously met persons will cross their paths, and I probably hurt John, physically and mentally, far more than is kind. This is merely the prologue and further chapters will be longer. Also, future chapters will not be so heavy on the exposition. Enjoy!

**Prologue**

 

WHEN Sherlock died, his loneliness returned full blast-as did the nightmares of the war. The nightmares of watching Sherlock fall combated quite frequently with his time under gunfire, however, and it made sleeping a chore. He didn't want to accept his friend was gone, but reality was awfully difficult to ignore.

WHEN Sherlock died, he returned to his therapist. It did little for him and merely became routine. The only tangible result that came out of it was a visit to the gravestone a month after his death with Mrs. Hudson. He'd felt like an idiot after, speaking from his heart to a slab of stone. "Don't be dead." What he'd said to the grave like it would somehow change anything. It didn't.

WHEN Sherlock died, his psychosomatic limp returned on the worst days. At first every day was a worst day. Eventually, it was just when something especially reminded him of his best friend. A shock of curly black hair of a person on the street, Lestrade's attempts to get him to continue working on cases with him like Sherlock did, or even the sound of a violin. It all affected him so and it enraged him. He had lost friends and allies in the line of duty but this was so very different. There was no one he'd ever met like Sherlock Holmes.

WHEN Sherlock died, he stopped writing in his blog. After visiting the grave and making a pathetic speech which fell on deaf ears, he stopped seeing his therapist, too. What was the point? Admitting it out loud to make it real? What nonsense. It was already shockingly real.

WHEN Sherlock died, he lost his sense of direction and purpose. With Sherlock there had nearly always been a new adventure to explore, a case to solve. Even when there hadn't been, one was never far off and it was enough. The excitement and intrigue of exploring murder cases died with Sherlock. He chose to work at the hospital as much as possible instead. He was a damn good doctor and determined not to become useless just because he was sad. So determined was he, it took nearly a month to realize he'd been extremely neglectful of his eating and sleeping habits. Too much like Sherlock. He'd gotten violently ill and then set aside time to ensure he ate and slept on a regular basis. He could do without the reminder of such a loss.

WHEN Sherlock died, he cut himself off from Scotland Yard. Lestrade was unhappy about it but he suspected the rest of the police were only too glad to be rid of Sherlock's sidekick, sole friend, flatmate, or whatever he was being called at the time. They all of them actually believed the massive lie Moriarty had spun. The last he'd seen of Lieutenant Donovan, Anderson, and the rest, was when he'd been in Lestrade's office yelling at the man for his lack of faith. They'd wanted to believe Sherlock was guilty because it was easier to do so. They didn't like that Sherlock was better than them, smarter and brilliant, and solving crimes sheerly by being himself. He'd informed the entire police force of this, loudly. Load of good it did... the tabloids had made up their mind for them. Mycroft knew the truth, but he refused to talk to him or Anthea either. That bastard was at least equally responsible for Sherlock's fate, as Moriarty himself. There would be no forgiveness for such blatant guilt.

WHEN Sherlock died, he didn't see his sister or date anyone anymore. He still saw Sarah at the hospital when he worked his shifts, but she'd learned to avoid bringing up Sherlock after the first time and that he was there only for work. The one person he held on to, even three months on after his friend was gone, was Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't the heart to cut her from his life or leave her permanently. She was who kept him tethered to the flat he'd once shared with Sherlock, no matter how hard it was to remain. The rent was being paid off in its entirety as well, which he suspected was Mycroft's doing, the meddling git.

WHEN Sherlock died, he visited the grave more often than was necessarily healthy. After curling up and sleeping peacefully over the grave one night, he forced himself to stop visiting altogether. That marked the passing of three months without Sherlock. He quit the hospital and started his own investigations because he couldn't take being so depressing and sitting still. A missing dog case fell into his lap and he met a nice woman named Mary, who he spent the occasional weekend with as a method of getting away from the city. He kept it proper though, strictly good friends. Didn't feel much like being his usual "bachelor" self these days, and sought closeness more.

WHEN Sherlock died, Calantha, that's what she'd taken to calling herself at the time, came to him in private, learning of John's recent undertaking. She swore Mycroft knew nothing and then offered to be his source of information. When he'd asked her why she would help him, he received a smile and several peculiar cold case files as his answer. They had been very interesting and from what he'd picked up from watching Sherlock, he thought he was finally getting somewhere after several weeks had passed. Then "The Woman" showed up and created quite the distraction, especially when he'd believed her dead as well. She brought with her, another cold case from Calantha, and far too many memories. Together they figured out just how the money was being smuggled out of the bank, and together they managed to find comfort in one another. It was how he learned she was as lonely as he, and before she left, she gave him a place to use to escape the flat he was stuck in whenever he needed it.

WHEN Sherlock died, four months gone by, he found a new focus. Calantha came to him with a new proposition, a job offer from the government. It had nothing to do with Mycroft, involved outing traitors in the NSA and a corruption scheme, and more importantly, gave him a new purpose to focus on. His secondary flat became useful for the cover he adopted. The soldier returned from war a few years ago, temporary consultant to the police, now seeking to be a part of something bigger. It wasn't difficult for those he was introduced to, to believe, and they were excited to have yet another volunteer for their project. He figured out rather quickly that the experimental drug the project revolved around wasn't ethical and with a little help from Irene, who seduced one of the computer technicians, he had in his hands the information he required to proceed. The project itself had begun innocent enough, but the two who had been placed in charge were as corrupt as they came, and the project devolved into murder abound.

A month passed and it was a struggle to maintain his cover and deal with the constant injections involved in making a "super soldier", but he was successfully distracted. His latest cold case investigation, with potential corrupt cops, was put aside when he caught wind of a presence in Cardiff that couldn't be possible. An explosion initially believed to be a gas leak. He knew better and so did Calantha, who informed him of a man who'd been disappeared from the same flat that had been blown to bits. The man was a wealthy investor in technology, suddenly living in a crap flat. It didn't make sense. The police figured on it being a hit. A man who got in with the wrong people and had lost that fortune with ugly results. He considered the bombing and the lost wealth and came up with a name. Moriarty. Supposedly dead. That was what he'd been informed of. The hardest way. That was how he learned Moriarty still lived.

WHEN Sherlock died, he had first dreaded the slowness of time, then needed as much as he could get when working as essentially a spy in a job he would never of taken had circumstances been more kind. He lost two weeks because of the insane criminal mastermind, but he felt it was two weeks he'd deserved to lose. How else could he shake himself from his guilt in failing Sherlock? It had also served as the perfect reminder that he couldn't play God. What he could do, was stop the corruption within the NSA and save a lot of people in the process. His control over the situation was slipping though and he knew it. As the drug improved, he worried they would achieve what they sought and he'd be trapped. There was a method of sneaking the information out. He only needed to find the method. Not being able to find that method and seeing what these people were doing, began the nightmares again.

WHEN Sherlock died, the world kept turning.


	2. To Live is To Suffer-Part 1

Five months after Sherlock died, John discovered Moriarty lived.

The Cardiff police didn't believe him when he tried to explain who Moriarty was and tried to prove his responsibility behind the recent bombing they were investigating. Everyone believed the stupid reporters about how fake the criminal mastermind was. After all, who could be involved in that much crime and never get caught? Bloody idiots. He'd found the missing man from the blown to hell flat still owned several hotels and he tracked down the bastard himself. His mission he was working with Anthea was completely forgotten for the time being, the case of potential police corruption that had gone nowhere, already left behind a week before that. Moriarty had taken Sherlock from him and it was something that could never be forgotten.

He found James Moriarty in a high-end hotel room, third floor, torturing a stranger tied to a chair. Well, Moriarty wasn't the one doing the actual pain-inflicting, undoubtedly for the sake of his "not getting his own hands dirty" mantra with his job as consulting criminal. A second man, probably another one of his random thugs, was currently occupied shredding the poor victim's chest to ribbons, slowly. John watched this for maybe a total of five seconds before making his move.

He'd managed to acquire a key to the room from the front desk area in order to quietly slip inside and get the drop on the king of crime. Moriarty had his back to the door as John entered, busy snarling something liable to be horrendous into his captive's ear. The man in the chair was beyond terrified. He'd obviously been badly injured, badly scared, and even though the thug's hand now stayed from the physical attack, he continued to scream from behind the gag fixed around the lower half of his head. Pain and distress was written all across his face.

John took this all in rapidly, swallowed down the urge to gag at the mess that was the hostage's chest and stomach, and then aimed his gun level at Moriarty's skull. He was going to take him out immediately, shoot him dead before a single word could be uttered from that venomous mouth. But when he hesitated, for that very small moment, he knew it was not going to be as easy as he'd hoped. Arrive, shoot Moriarty dead, leave. That had been his mantra since the day he discovered Moriarty lived. Never had he killed anyone in cold-blood. Apparently not even someone as dark and twisted as James Moriarty was enough for him to kill. He was going to have to work his way up to it, get the other man to piss him off enough to do the deed. He hoped it worked or he was going to be as dead as his target deserved to be.

"Moriarty," he uttered, eyes steeling, body forming into a rigid military stance as he kept the handgun trained on his target with the right hand.

The bastard actually had the decency to look genuinely surprised, eyes widening, growing ridiculously large as he turned towards the doorway and to John. When the surprise shifted eerily into a pleased expression, he had to consciously keep his face stony and not confused. He forced his eyes to stare directly into the other man's cold, dark ones.

"You don't get to live," he found himself saying to the man in the annoyingly expensive and handsome suit. "You don't get to live when..when he's dead."

Crap. He'd choked on the delivery a bit. Saying his name though, it remained difficult even now. His life as he knew it had ended when Sherlock took that jump. He was willing to risk it all for the opportunity to avenge his best friend. Moriarty's expression darkened.

"Oh? And are you going to be the one to end me? Sherlock would be so disappointed if-"

"Don't you say his name! You don't get to do that either!"

The thug made a move on him, flipping the knife up to throw it at John. So John shot him, in the head. He was dead before hitting the ground and he already had the gun back on Moriarty in the next moment, to find the man positively bursting with glee.

"Oh! The soldier can kill. I can play that game too, Johnny."

A subtle nod to the wall by the door and John realized his mistake. He hadn't looked around at his surroundings when he entered. His eyes had been for the man he'd come to kill alone. He tried to remedy his mistake by switching his aim behind and to the right, but felt the cold metal of someone else's gun press against the back of his head before he could move much. This had gone wrong, fast. His missing the fourth man in the room was a big mistake indeed, a fatal one.

His jaw clenched and his lips thinned, but he didn't lower his own weapon. He calculated his odds of eliminating Moriarty before he, himself, was eliminated. They weren't good. His enemy seemed to be reading his mind.

"Actions have consequences. You killed one of my men, I kill an ordinary citizen."

Moriarty leaned down and slit the tortured man's throat, squatting lower to watch as the man gurgled and choked on his own blood. When the man was quite dead, he stood back up and straightened out his suit. Turning to face John, he looked pointedly at the gun in his hand and the knife in his own.

"Hm..looks like you won this round."

He dropped the blood-coated knife onto the carpet. John continued to stare at him silently, unsure of what his next move should be. A suicidal shot at Moriarty? The man wasn't finished speaking.

"Unfortunately for you, John, Sebastian wins the second."

He risked a glance over his shoulder to get a brief glimpse of the man with the gun to his skull. Dark hair and dark eyes, tall and broad shouldered. John was no Sherlock, but he could spot the military stance in which the larger man held himself as he kept the gun steady. This man was apparently named Sebastian. He turned out to not be such a nice man. He poked the back of John's head and when John did nothing, he bashed the gun against the side of his head.

He grunted, stumbling forward a bit. After regaining his balance, he let out a curse.

"English. Forming words. Try it next time you want something done," he muttered, dropping his handgun to the floor after applying the safety.

He'd thought he'd been ready to die. Without Sherlock, life was bitter, awful, agonizing at times. In a moment of weakness he had decided he didn't want to die and it couldn't have come at a worse time, because surely, surely Moriarty was going to kill him. The only thing he had to wonder, was whether he would be killed quick or slow.

Moriarty was peering down at the dead man in the chair with disgust, as though the man was somehow offending him simply by being in the chair, deceased. He took this as an opportunity to seal his lips and become silent. Perhaps his chances of being murdered quickly would improve if he made himself as dull as the terrible man thought he was.

The criminal mastermind had returned his attention to John. He tilted his head to the side and peered curiously at him. John ignored his stare and looked past him to the window beyond. Moriarty wasn't having any of that.

"You can talk, Johnny boy."

The response came immediate. "I have nothing to say to you."

"We both know that's not true. Go on, don't be a bore."

The last part came out as more of a threat. Good. It meant he was on the right track. Being a bore would make this undesirable situation end much more quickly. He may have failed at killing Moriarty, but he'd die readily enough over being stuck listening to the man he hated, the man responsible for Sherlock's suicide.

"Just get on with it."

"With what? Oh, you mean killing you?"

Another motion and John was being pushed to his knees, the gun at the back of his skull now pushing hard into the flesh of his neck. He shut his eyes and waited for it. Nothing happened. The sound of footsteps walking up to his position prompted him to open his eyes when he felt himself grow anxious.

"It would be so easy for me."

The snap of fingers caused him to jump and he felt his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment.

"Like that, I could snuff out your existence."

"And?" John gritted out through clenched teeth.

"And that's rather the point. I can kill you at any moment. But this is what I'll do instead. If you don't obey every one of my commands, like the good little dog that you are, I will kill some poor, ordinary person just walking about on the street. Do you understand?"

"Just what the hell do you want from me?"

"Stand."

John was acutely aware he'd been ignored and given a command. He thought about throwing himself at his enemy, considered attempting to throw the gun at his neck off just before pummeling Moriarty into a bloody mess. But when the gun was removed and the man behind him took a few steps back, out of his range, he knew that possibility had come and gone. He stood.

"You're soooo good. I can't stand it. How can you be like that, all-the-time?"

He frowned at Moriarty.

"It sounds exhausting." Moriarty expressed, nose shriveling up in distaste at the idea of a person being truly good.

"Yeah, sure, I'm a nice guy. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you in the face. Fancy giving me my gun?"

"You had your gun, your chance, and you didn't pull the trigger. Let's not pretend you would either. I know you better than that."

"You don't know me at all," he practically growled out.

It only seemed to please the other. "Course I do. You're..sorry.. _were_ Sherlock's pet. He must have kept you around for a reason. I wonder..."

"Don't. You'll only hurt yourself."

He'd said it threateningly. He wanted the man to know he could lash out at any moment if provoked enough. Moriarty was wagging his finger at him now, scoldingly.

"That's enough talking."

John started to open his mouth and found a finger unwantingly placed against his lips in a hushing gesture.

"Remember those average people, just waiting to get sniped. Moran is very talented."

Automatically, he stored that knowledge for later. Sebastian Moran, obvious former military, and a sniper to boot. He took a step back to remove the finger from his face, and was rewarded for his action by a hand fisting in his hair, tugging him closer. With a grimace, he let Moriarty do it, and apprehensively let the man grip his chin with his other hand.

"I am so pleased you were able to find me, Johnny. Now we'll get to spend all kinds of time together. I'm going to find out what makes you so specialize. And at the very least, I'm going to make you regret daring to think you would succeed at killing me."

That sounded very much like a promise, and he swallowed down a knot of fear threatening to rise up out of his throat. A couple years ago, the criminal had had him in his clutches for only a few hours, and it had been hell. He knew the torments a man like Moriarty could conjure, and he was afraid. There, he'd admitted it. Too bad it did absolutely nothing for him.

"Hm... What should we name him, Sebastian? The Pet seems far too obvious. How about the Mutt? No...? I'll figure it out. I want it to be good, fitting, like Sherlock's."

John yanked his head away from Moriarty, eyes wide as the other went on, utterly calm and matter-of-fact as he spoke.

"And the name still fits him, too, doesn't it?"

Don't. He'd better not call Sherlock that. It was just so stupid when the man was dead.

"The Virgin."

His vision blurred, his brain went fuzzy, and he punched the man full on in the face. The satisfaction that came from connecting with Moriarty's face and watching him stumble backwards a small distance was short-lived. Moran was on him in a second, taking him to the floor and kicking him over and over. He then switched to punching him in the face repeatedly until it was a bloody mess. When he couldn't do much more than twitch or groan, the brutal beating ceased. It was fortunate, because his body had begun to numb from the sheer pain shooting through every part of him, and as a doctor, he knew that wasn't very good. Vaguely, he was aware he was being lifted up and when his back hit something soft and cushy, he knew he'd been tossed on the bed. That was about the time he blacked out.

///

_John shook his head from side to side as he exited 221b. He was frustrated and annoyed, and persistently trying to tell himself he wasn't mad. Sherlock thought he was such an idiot but he wasn't. He knew his flatmate was keeping something from him and he knew the man probably thought his tiny little brain couldn't possibly process such knowledge. So now he would be turning his thoughts to Sarah. Sweet and wonderful Sarah who deserved to see her boyfriend more often than she ever did get to do. If Sherlock didn't want to share his thoughts on this mysterious Moriarty fellow nor discuss the fact that the man was clearly having fun playing with the consulting detective, then John would just go on with his day as usual. Oh boy, there he went again, mind mulling over Sherlock Holmes._

_Flowers! Yes, he would buy Sarah some flowers. There was a flower shop only a block from his current position. He would try to make it up to Sarah tonight. He had to with the way their first date had gone and how inconsistent he was with his attendance as her employee at the hospital. Just before the bouquet shop, he frowned and paused in the entryway, glancing over his shoulder at the street behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary, some traffic, a few pedestrians, nothing more. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling there were eyes on him. Great, this bomber case was making him paranoid._

_Stepping inside the shop, he mulled over the card section for a moment, before deciding against it. A card was too risky. It would be either the right one or the completely wrong one. He and Sarah were not in a position to get any more unstable at the moment. His eyes swept over the rows of flowers set out for selection. Which ones to choose..._

_"Oh, hi, um...John was it?"_

_He startled at the sudden interruption in his thought-process and the immense closeness of the speaker. A dark haired man slightly taller than himself, stood immediately to his right, leaning towards him with his head cocked to the side in a curious manner. John took a step away from the guy to put a more comfortable distance between them and to get a better look at him. He was familiar, he'd definitely seen him before. Dark hair was slicked perfectly back, he was clean shaven, wearing an impeccable suit that had to of cost a pretty penny, and it was obvious he was a high-maintenance fellow who took great care to look good._

_Pretty quickly he placed it, but he was incredibly surprised as he did. The man before him now looked a lot different from the man he'd met previously. The gay guy from the morgue. Jim from IT. Tonight he was clearly dressed to impress and had some special plans. For a moment he wondered, but then he remembered Sarah and how he should really find some flowers and get a move on to her place._

_"Uh, yeah, that's right. And you're Jim..Molly's Jim."_

_"Ahh..well, was Molly's Jim. She broke up with me shortly after meeting you and Sherlock Holmes in the lab. Something about us being very different people."_

_John winced. It wasn't entirely an unpredictable outcome after Sherlock had openly called out Jim as being gay in front of the new couple. He briefly scanned his eyes over Jim's attire._

_"So if you're broken up, might I ask what the occasion is for getting all dressed up?"_

_The other man smiled, and John couldn't help but notice the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Maybe his prodding wasn't appreciated because Jim was obviously trying to play polite. Whoops..now to change the subject and extract himself from this situation._

_"Ah, sorry, nevermind. It's really not my business."_

_He turned and went back to browsing through the flower selection. He'd go with a bouquet. Sarah deserved at least that much, no matter the cost. Roses. Red roses were romantic and beautiful and he hoped it would be enough to express how sorry he was for not being more available. Picking up the flowers, he made his way to the checkout, only to find he had not rid himself of Molly's..sorry, formerly Molly's Jim._

_"I don't mind you asking. Tonight's an important night for me actually. Get to introduce myself to someone special."_

_"You've met someone else already? How wonderful for you I suppose." John sort of muttered absentmindedly as he made his purchase with the teller._

_"Well, I've met him in a manner of speaking, but not officially. I've got another date beforehand though, have to be prepared and all that."_

_John found himself turning towards Jim curiously, frowning at the same time when he felt the man's hand touch the arm he had resting on the counter. Something was..off. Back in the morgue's lab, Jim had been a bag of nerves, fawning over Sherlock while completely ignoring everyone else. This very moment, he was anything but awkward and had eyes solely for John. What? Was this guy seriously trying to flirt with him after confessing he already had two dates for tonight? It was a good thing Molly had dumped him when she had. Judging by how Jim said he was meeting a man, Sherlock had been correct in deducing he was gay. Apparently, he also was quick to get himself other dates as well, and didn't mind having more than one._

_Pulling his arm out from under Jim's touch, he accepted his change and thanked the teller as he pocketed the currency. She asked him if he wanted the flowers wrapped but he turned her down, wishing to remove himself from Jim's company as quickly as possible. This guy was sending out bad news vibes to him._

_"Well, I have to be off to my girlfriend's," he initiated, outside the shop when he saw the admittedly exceptionally dressed man had trailed after him to the sidewalk. "It was..interesting running into you..I guess."_

_Jim surprised him when he laughed, following him as John made his way down the sidewalk. "You could at least attempt to hide your contempt for me."_

_"What?"_

_He turned to look at the other, frowning again. "I'm sorry?"_

_For a second, the dark brown eyes appeared almost black, marring the handsome face. But then in the next moment, they seemed normal brown again as he tilted his head at a slight angle to regard John with a small smile._

_"You have a certain light in your eyes. It's...darling."_

_John visibly wrinkled his face up in distaste as he physically displayed his repulsion for such words. He was usually better at pretending to be tolerating of others, polite and kind to everyone he met..that deserved it anyway. This Jim was not one of those people, he was rapidly learning. The man made his skin crawl and his flirting somehow seemed almost so intense it was actually threatening. How did a guy like that land two dates in a single night? He wasn't gay, but perhaps men were easier that way?_

_"I should be going. Goodbye Jim."_

_He resumed his walk at a quicker pace than before, but Jim matched him pace for pace. What was with this guy? Why didn't he leave him be? Was it really necessary for him to flat-out tell the guy he wasn't gay and certainly wasn't interested in creepy Jim from IT?_

_"You're not as average as you pretend, are you?"_

_His pace faltered, but he managed to keep going, glancing Jim's way. "Excuse me?"_

_"You know something is wrong, with me. But you just can't place what it is. You can't place why you're suspecting of me."_

_Discomfort spread through his body as the man reached over and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, abruptly stopping his walking._

_"Stop, Dr. Watson."_

_"Er..Molly told you I was a doctor, did she?"_

_"No, John, she didn't."_

_His attempt to remove his arm from Jim's hold failed miserably. The man was much stronger than he appeared. A second attempt to pull away had him suddenly being pulled by the arm, into an alleyway not far from where they'd been standing on the sidewalk. John finally managed to escape from the grasp as his back was pushed into the brick wall in the dark of the alley. What the hell was going on?_

_"I know all about you. I know all about Sherlock Holmes, too. I studied the pair of you, intently, before I set in motion the opportunity to meet the famous man himself. Rather rude I must say, then again, a superior man like him doesn't have time to placate the ignorant masses."_

_John frowned. The man was far too close to him for comfort, standing at ease with his hands in his pockets and a slight smirk on his face. He was nothing at all like the Jim from the lab in that moment and a thought began to creep in the back of his head. As though the other man was reading his mind, he removed his hands from his pockets and clapped once._

_"Ah, I think he's got it."_

_He reached for his gun before realizing he'd left it at home. He'd been going to Sarah's, there'd been no conceivable need to bring a weapon along. How could he be so stupid? He had known the bomber was still out there and should have brought the gun as a precaution. But Sherlock was the one who had enthralled the mystery man behind the bombings. Why go after him when he could go after Sherlock? Oh..in a manner he WAS going after Sherlock._

_"James Moriarty, pleased to meet you."_

_"Uh huh." John uttered, then pushed the now incredibly terrifying man away and ran for it, roses abandoned and long forgotten._

_To say it hurt, when another man rammed bodily into him from the side, would be an understatement. The man dressed in black was much bigger and broader than himself, and it felt like he'd been slammed into by a large boulder. Hitting the ground, he rolled with it in order to avoid injury, and lashed out at his attacker with a well-placed kick to the face. His assailant dropped hard, but his victory was momentary, as there was another similarly built man coming towards him from just behind the first one._

_John swept himself back up to stand on both feet as a black car careened practically onto the sidewalk beside him. He found he was very much trapped when the driver's window rolled down and he found a gun pointed at him. The other man reached him but stopped just short of assault and stooped to help his downed friend instead. He discovered the reason why when he felt a hand against his back. Moriarty._

_"Please, John, get in the car. We're going somewhere to meet Sherlock."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"He set this up himself actually."_

_There was swearing going on in his head. Of course, what Sherlock had been hiding from him. He'd probably waited until he left the apartment before messaging James Moriarty a moment later. Five... Oh, shit. There had only been four..._

_"Um..yeah. I'm not going with you so you can strap a bomb on me and use me against Sherlock."_

_Moriarty was smiling again. Probably not a good thing._

_"It's adorable that you actually believe there will be any other end to tonight. I suppose that's the only way simple people like yourself can keep themselves going each day, hm? Belief that they can actually change things out there in the big, bad world."_

_John grinded down on his lower set of teeth and searched his surroundings, seeking for a way to escape this predicament. He knew it was unlikely he would find one, but it was instinct. He wasn't the kind of man to just give in because someone told him to._

_"I see the concept of getting blown to bits makes you a tad unsettled. Well, we have time to spend until midnight. Would it comfort you to know that the worst thing to happen to you tonight will not be getting strapped with explosives?"_

_He actually thought about what was being said to him and that was his mistake. Moriarty was distracting him with his words, never intending an answer. The slightly taller man leaned in, a knee very purposefully sliding between his legs, and planted his lips against John's. He gasped in shock, never expecting such an act from an obviously clever and demented criminal mastermind, and Moriarty took full advantage. Tongue was everywhere, exploring the inside of his mouth, and it took him nearly a full minute to shake himself out of his frozen mode, shoving the twisted criminal violently away from him in horror. The man was laughing hysterically._

_"You and I are going to have such fun playing together, Johnny."_

_Wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve in disgust, he shook his head rapidly. "Fuck. I'll take the explosives."_

_"Hm..interesting wording. All in good time. We have until midnight after all."_

_He blanched at the flirtatious tone the other man was using with his words. "You made Jim from IT up. You were playing gay. What in God's name are you playing at now?"_

_Moriarty was now positively grinning from ear to ear. "I'm playing..how to make Johnny boy suffer as much as possible...without Sherlock ever finding out just how much fun we had."_

_An almost imperceptible nod and the two men behind him were grabbing hold of John, handcuffing his wrists behind him and then promptly shoving him into the backseat of the waiting car. When he nearly managed to throw himself back out of the car, one of the black clad men punched him in the stomach and he doubled over in a huff. Peering upwards, he caught Moriarty rolling his eyes in impatience and then the man shoved him further into the car himself, getting in after._

_John made to speak and was rewarded with a harsh grip over his mouth, fingers clamping onto his jaw. He watched as the other men climbed into the car to sit across from him and Moriarty. The car pulled away from the curb as soon as the door shut. His eyes moved to the man behind his now apparent kidnapping, who seemed to have been waiting for him to acknowledge him._

_"When I want you to open that mouth, you'll know it."_

_Moriarty shoved him back against the seat, releasing his face, but John didn't dare say a word. This guy was hard to read. He always seemed to be shifting from one emotion to the next, one thought to another. John settled on working at the cuffs. His eyes watched the road, attempting to keep track of where they were headed. Sherlock was the one who knew these roads like the back of his hand though. After a few minutes he was already lost. Still, if he could get loose somehow and could outrun his kidnappers, he'd be able to get somewhere there was a phone. He'd be okay and then Sherlock would be okay._

_He doubled over when the man clothed in black across from him leaned forward and punched him in the ribs. Before he could even catch his breath, he was being dragged from the seat and shoved to the floor of the vehicle. A boot landed on the back of his neck and pushed, crushing his face into the carpeted floor. About five minutes like that and then he was brought up again and returned to his original position beside Moriarty._

_Once more his face was jerked around so that he was staring into the other man's face. "My men don't like it when they go through all the trouble of acquiring someone, only for said someone to do nothing but search for an avenue of escape."_

_John wanted to scream the obvious at him. That of course he would look for a way to get out. His captor had made it clear he was going to do bad things and that they involved Sherlock later in the night. Did he really think he was going to sit and take it? But he didn't say anything. He hadn't forgotten the cruelty in Moriarty's gaze when he'd informed him he should not talk, lest he suffer the consequences, or something along those lines._

_The man was smiling broadly. "Good pet. Oh look, we've arrived."_

_The two men across from him took him out of the car and into the building they were parked behind. The Sports Center. He knew where they were going. This was the place where young Carl Powers had died. And he was right. He was forcefully walked into the locker room of the pool area and left alone. Well, not actually alone. One of the hired goons stood just outside the door, the shadow of his head partially seen through the small window._

_He took in his new surroundings in a hurry. Time was not on his side. He had to get out of here to warn Sherlock about what he thought he was doing, setting up a meet with a mad man such as James Moriarty. The goon was waiting outside the exit but if he was alone, he could take him. He'd shove the door into him to knock him off balance and then run like hell. It might work and taking a chance was better than nothing. He stood cautiously, the running was going to be a little more of a nuisance than it should be with his wrists handcuffed behind him, but very doable. Naturally, this was when Moriarty chose to make his reappearance through a second entrance he hadn't even known about._

_Visibly he deflated, tense shoulders dropping and restrained arms relaxing. Moriarty hadn't come alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man was with him. He thought about fighting or fleeing anyway, and his captor read every thought right off him._

_"Aw, don't be like that. I might think this is a one-sided affair if you continue to act so put-off by my presence."_

_"It is one-sided."_

_"Psh."_

_What? What the heck was that? This whole situation was beginning to get to him. Moriarty kept toying with him and it was frustrating. Was he really going to have to endure hours of Mr. Insanity before Sherlock arrived? Oh, God, he didn't want Sherlock to come here. Would Moriarty kill him when he did? What did he want from the detective consultant anyway, aside from playing games with him? If this ended up being about who was smarter than who, he was gonna kill someone._

_"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I can't seem to get your full attention. Guess we'll have to do something to change that."_

_Thug number two descended upon him, initiating the sudden close proximity with a fist into his stomach. The blow caused him to drop to his knees and he muttered a curse, followed by a query as to why they had to keep hitting him there. Surprisingly, while he quite pathetically tried to jostle with his assailant, Moriarty answered him._

_"As much damage as possible-without Sherlock noticing. I want him seeing you strapped with explosives, potentially about to meet your maker, and that is ALL I wish for him to see. Any other injuries would serve only as a..distraction. What happens in the next couple of hours before his arrival is between you and me, Pet."_

_"Face is off limits, how fantastic for me. Would mean so much more if your man would stop trying to-augh..."_

_A steel-tipped boot to his shin, followed by yet another hit to his ribs, silenced his speech and movements temporarily. It provided sufficient time for thug number two to continue the removal of his clothing. The restraints were momentarily removed, long enough to yank his jacket and shirt entirely off of his body before being replaced, leaving him utterly nude and once more with wrists locked together behind himself. He was pulled up and seated on the bench again._

_"Well, this is really not how I wanted to spend my evening. This settles it. Bad day all around."_

_Moriarty gave his man a nod and they were left alone. Hardly comforting, given who Moriarty was. The being naked thing didn't exactly put him at ease either. There were reasons for a captive to be stripped. It could be a means of searching to ensure there were no hidden weapons, a method to embarrass or humiliate, or there was always that other reason. The other reason was one he didn't even want to entertain in his mind. It couldn't happen to him. No way. No fucking way._

_He felt dark eyes burning into his chin and he forced himself to lower his head and stare back. He wouldn't be cowed by this man. This apparent criminal genius looked younger than he was, too soft to of had any military experience. Definitely he had others do the majority of his dirty work. So... what did it mean when he was alone with him?_

_The man got down on one knee in front of where John sat. He continued to stare directly into John's eyes. It was unnerving._

_"I want you to tell me everything about Sherlock Holmes. Everything there is to know as the inside man in his life of late."_

_"What? You mean because I live with him? You already know all about him. What could I possibly tell you that would be new?"_

_"You undersell yourself. You may be one of the many boring normal people out there, but you've got something on them no one else does. You, Dr. Watson, have managed to enthrall the very man who has captured my interest. How do you do it? What is it that makes you so special?"_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"Oh don't be dense!"_

_The words came out sharp, full of sudden anger. It had been unexpected but it was something he'd rapidly gathered about Moriarty. Unstable, insane, unpredictable. James Moriarty was not only a master of crime, but a master of his own changing emotions. The guy didn't seem to know what he wanted at times, yet so certain of what he was doing in the next moment._

_John continued to stare into the other man's eyes and he swore he could see the color darken to a near black along with his blackening mood. Though his eyes seemed to be darkening, a positively shark-like grin was spreading across his face. He really, really didn't like being near this man and it had nothing to do with being naked, cuffed, or trapped. The man reeked of danger so intoxicating he was actually beginning to feel fear creep slowly to the forefront of his mind._

_"You were a soldier. Tell me, what is the best method of extracting information from a hostage when time is short and you don't want to leave lasting damage, seeking to keep the subject alive and in good health?"_

_His carefully calculated, calm breathing caught in his throat. That thing he wasn't going to entertain was coming back into his thoughts again. No. Why would he do this? There was no reason. His eyes had strayed away from Moriarty for a few seconds, but they returned when he realized an actual answer was wanted._

_"We didn't do sick shit like that. The British Armed Forces has honor. Something you obviously know nothing about."_

_If it was at all possible, the man's smile appeared to stretch even further. His eyes lit up with dark amusement. "So predictable. The soldier, using an insult to attempt to avoid an inevitable fate. Rather pathetic but admittedly enjoyable..for me."_

_Moriarty reached close and ran a hand gently through his hair. When John tried to pull back, the soft touch turned harsh, fisting painfully into his blonde locks. He was tugged forward until Moriarty's lips were about to touch John's own, a small smile still poised as he began to speak._

_"You will tell me what I want to know. You are dull and plain, Johnny boy. I am going to tear you to pieces without Sherlock ever knowing. So come on, Johnny. Focus on that life-long goal of staying alive if you must. Don't disappoint me... Now! Before giving me what I need, why don't we forego the talking for a bit, and put that mouth to another use."_

_He never said a word about Sherlock. He refused to give Moriarty that when the man had already forcefully taken John's dignity and fight out of him by the time he was through. When midnight approached, thug number two along with number one came in as soon as Moriarty had gone out. He'd then been clothed plus encumbered with an uncomfortable amount of explosives._

_Jim Moriarty returned once more to give him a final brush of lips against his cheek and ear, applying an earpiece to one ear while reminding John that he knew the rules. Fingers scraped lightly across his neck, and then the well-dressed devil was gone and would not be seen again until Sherlock's arrival. While he waited for that moment, for the first command to be uttered through the earpiece, he clenched and unclenched his now gloved hands, swallowing nervously but pushing away the most mind-numbing of his fears. It was extremely difficult after what Moriarty had put him through, but he had to concentrate on what was about to happen. He had to, because of Sherlock, because he needed to make sure that if he couldn't make it out alive, at least Sherlock would._

_The last Moriarty-centered thought that came to mind before he pushed his thoughts forward to the situation at hand, were worthy of wrecking him. The worst thing about James Moriarty, he raped sweetly. It was like making love in the most twisted sense. The future would come to show that just about everything involving Jim Moriarty was twisted. It was too horrible that even Sherlock didn't see it in time to save himself. John would have suffered a hundred times at Moriarty's hands if it would have saved his best friend from that fall. The time to change things had long passed, however, and Sherlock Holmes was long gone. All that remained was the attempt to be someone who could make a difference, without Sherlock to lift him up and make it possible. Even that small future, seemed dim, as his own vision dimmed and unconsciousness took him further into the hell he was living._


	3. To Live is To Suffer-Part 2

The memory of his first encounter with James Moriarty faded into the recesses of his dizzied mind. He began to feel an insurmountable amount of pain and he knew he was coming back to consciousness. Something was touching him, no, someone. There was a heat on top of him and a nagging sensation at the back of his skull screamed for him to wake and become aware. He forced his eyes open and immediately clamped them shut again when a fresh surge of pain roared through his head. It felt like his entire face had been smashed into a wall a few dozen times. Wait..that wasn't far off. He recalled a man named Sebastian Moran and then his current predicament came flooding back. Overcoming the worst of the agony his body was in, his eyes snapped open.

Moriarty was very much naked and was the heat he'd felt on him. A glance down the length of his own body informed him that he was likewise undressed. Did he think this was what he and Sherlock had done in the past? That this was why Sherlock "kept" him around? Surely he knew better than that. Which meant, the criminal did this..why? To make him suffer, undoubtedly.

His eyes checked out his environment. The dead man and the chair were gone, though a sizable bloodstain coated the white carpet. Moran was also missing but he didn't think he'd gone far. Moriarty always had back-up and secondary plans, for everything. There would be no escape. He could barely move as it was, nearly every inch of his body in a fair bit of pain from the earlier beating. His attention went to the man on top when he spoke directly to him.

"Oh, good, you're awake. I thought I might have to get started without you."

He winced as Moriarty leaned an elbow into cracked ribs, full attention going to the probably very messed up face of his. Molestation while unaware sounded like a good idea. Why'd he have to wake up again?

"Sherlock and I don't do this, you know. So you can stop."

A frown creased the other's forehead. "This isn't about Sherlock. Obvious."

Rolled eyes like John was the dumbest person he'd ever met encouraged the former soldier to latch onto the wrist of the wandering hand on his chest. Moriarty looked put out that his ministrations had been halted, but didn't fight the hold, lifting his gaze to John's eyes for the first time since waking. A lick of the lips gave away the man's impatience, yet he waited.

"Of all the things you are, I'd never have pegged you for a rapist. Stop. You don't need to do this out of some kind of misguided desire to hurt Sherlock. He can't hurt. Not anymore."

He really, really wanted this to work. Attempts to reach out to the perpetrator sometimes could prevent certain actions from being taken. At least, shows on the telly displayed such things going down successfully. Moriarty wasn't like anyone he'd ever seen on television or actually met, however, so he knew it was a long shot. A failed one at that but the attempt was humored by the insane man.

"You are quite right, Dr. Watson. Rape was never one of my moves. You'd be my first, my only."

John didn't feel special about that. He felt a sudden urge to tear his eyes away from Moriarty's own, but he didn't. His therapist thought he got off on being in danger, experiencing the thrill of chasing down a threat or being in the presence of one. He wasn't feeling very excited right now. Curious, though, was something he could admit to in this moment. Uncovering why a master criminal did what he did, would be a Sherlock move, and was his presently.

"When first we met, I had you to take that moment away from Sherlock."

It blurted out like a reflex, sounding irritated and tired simultaneously. "We were never a couple. I'm not gay."

Moriarty laughed softly. "You are so blind..and naive."

"More insults to my intelligence. Never had that before."

His captor seemed to like his snark and continued on as though John was being encouraging. "I enjoyed having you all to myself, very much. After, there was no desire to have any other in such a way. There really is something special about you."

"Lovely," he uttered, tilting his head out of Moriarty's free hand which had been cupping the back of his head until then.

"Yes, you are."

A disturbed look passed over his face and it made Moriarty laugh again, louder this time. "I've always loved to hurt people. You, you're so good! Makes it all the more..pleasurable."

At the word, "pleasurable", Moriarty buried his face into John's neck and bit down. He gasped and tried to squirm away but the wrist he didn't have hold of meant a hand was there to push down on his old shoulder wound. He quickly picked up that the harder he tried to get away, the more force there would be exerted on his sensitive scar.

With an annoyed grunt, he forced himself to still and let the man continue to ravish his neck with teeth and lips until he was good and finished. Pulling back from the neck, Moriarty applied a quick kiss to his lips before letting one hand trail all the way down his body to a place much lower.

"Do you want to hold my hand? Like last time?"

The question startled him. He was both completely surprised and not at all. John couldn't decide how to handle such a demented soul. Rapes, like he's making love. He very much knew Jim Moriarty had never made love with anyone, except with him in this sick and twisted manner. Sex was another story and he found himself wondering why the man couldn't just rape like every other dirtbag rapist. Rape was typically about displaying power over the victim with force and violence. Moriarty didn't do that. Raping sweetly. John was certain he was going to throw up, very soon. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want this to be happening to him. He wished Sherlock alive so he could come to the rescue. Then changed his mind, deciding he'd rather Sherlock never know about the things done to him by their enemy.

John took the offered hand, like Moriarty knew he would, fingers interlocking. Somehow, keeping hold of his hand like it was some kind of lifeline, allowed him to take the suffering without too much struggle. It was like gripping the hand let him keep himself held together. Still, when Moriarty began to move inside of him, wet tears began to stream unstoppably down his cheeks.

Fingers came up to wipe them away, gently. Hatred burned in his chest at the kind gesture, knowing it was anything but kind. This was Moriarty gloating at his victory over John. Verbally, he confirmed John's belief that he was satisfied with himself.

"Spirit. That's what you've got. The light in your eyes. Your being good. I wonder if I can break you of that. Do you think I can make you loyal to me?"

A particularly hard thrust caused him to grunt. It hadn't been entirely painful and that bothered him. Goddamn it! Was it too much to ask for someone to leave him be? This was nothing he'd been trained for. Oh God, Moriarty had said he'd punish him for trying to kill him. If the man could keep him for hours simply for knowing Sherlock, how long would he be kept this time? He didn't want to die, but he figured death would be preferrable over continuous torment at Moriarty's hands.

Speaking of hands, he squeezed his assailant's tight when the man quickened his pace as he neared climax. He buried his face into the bedsheet the best he could from his current position. He wanted to die but he didn't want to die. Such a paradox. Suicide had been enough for Sherlock. Maybe it was something to consider.

///

Four days into his captivity, kept in the same hotel room, kept occupied by Moriarty; the man dressed and left for the first time, leaving John alone. An opportunity for a run to freedom? He was aching, everywhere, and naked, but it didn't leave him helpless. If he had to, he was in good enough condition to fight or flee.

He forced himself to wait ten full minutes to ensure his captor was truly gone, before sliding off the bed. For a second he considered grabbing up the sheet to cover himself, then decided against it since the material was coated in bodily fluids he'd rather not revisit. There was only one way in or out of the room, locked, as he'd assumed. He peeked through the peephole and felt his hopes dashed upon sight of Sebastian Moran pacing back and forth in front of the door.

Didn't anyone see the man and find it suspicious? Moriarty had a lot of wealth to his criminal enterprise. He very well might have bought out every room on the floor just to ensure their privacy. Ugh, the thought wasn't a pleasant one. Giving up on the primary exit and entrance as a viable option, he moved to the large windows. Too high up, no wide ledge to conceivably utilize to move to another room.

Two minutes was all it took to know there was no way out. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. He searched the room and migrated over to the bathroom. He'd been allowed to utilize the shower and toilet every evening of his captivity. There was a shower, toilet, sink, and mirror. Nothing sharp to use as a weapon, yet. He took the soap dish and slammed it into the mirror, shattering it to pieces. Stooping to pick up the largest one, he placed it to his wrist. As a doctor, he knew right where to cut, how deep, and how much blood it would take to die. This would be better because then he'd be with Sherlock again at least. More importantly, he wouldn't be here.

"You don't have to die."

John started and cut himself a little by accident. He looked up to see Moran standing in the bathroom doorway. It dawned on him that it was very much like Moriarty to have the place wired with surveillance. The cameras could have been in place before he'd ever set foot in the hotel room, or during the time he'd been unconscious, however long that had been. His only sense of time here was when the sun rose and set each day, and the routine bathroom breaks.

Moran answered his questioning face by raising his cell phone screen towards him. "The cameras feed to this and are motion sensitive. Put the glass down, Captain Watson."

"Captain? I don't get called-Ah. So I was right. You're former military yourself."

"I was a colonel, once. Then freelance work, then.."

"Moriarty." John finished for him.

"You have a much better chance than most, to live. Killing yourself is unnecessary. When work calls upon him, he'll leave and he'll let you go."

"When's that? You can't possibly know if he will. He thinks I'm some kind of pet for him to do with as he pleases. This may never end."

"It will. A man like him doesn't have time to stay dormant for so long. The fact that he has for this long actually speaks volumes about you."

"How do you mean?"

"He likes you."

John practically choked on his weak response. "What?"

"I'm one of the few employees he bothers to confide in on occasion. He likes you and it infuriates him. I know you've noticed, too, his other weakness aside from being changeable."

"I don't-"

Moran pocketed the phone and gave John a knowing look. "You do know. You've seen it by how comfortable he's become around you and no, it isn't an act. Does that surprise you?"

It did. It shocked John to the core. What he'd been seeing, Moriarty listening to music and tapping to the beat, the chronic gum chewing habit he'd observed, how sometimes he asked questions about the "regular" people and how they lived, was all genuine.

"That doesn't make sense. You don't hold someone prisoner and rape them on a periodic basis if you like them. I know he's insane but that's just-no. It's not possible. I'm nothing but a boring regular person to him."

The other man continued to look at him. John sighed.

"Why do this to me then?" he asked, voice coming out weaker than he'd like. He was exhausted, having not slept at all since waking from the brutal beating done by the very man staring at him.

"It began as a punishment. Now, he just likes you. He's never liked anyone before."

"What? He seemed to have a thing for Sherlock. Your boss was obsessed and wouldn't let it go until Sherlock was dead."

Moran shook his head in disagreement. "He hates Sherlock Holmes. The man is one who rivals him in intelligence and he can't stand it. Superiority complex and all that." His eyes trailed up and down John once, then reached over to grab one of the towels on the shelf. Offering it to him, he said, "You can call me Sebastian. I think we're at a first name basis, yes? Now John, I don't have any desire to see you die, but I follow orders, so don't do anything stupid and the most that'll happen is the sex."

Sex? Horrific rape was much more accurate. He took the towel and fixed it around his waist. Despite Moran's obvious lack of understanding for his current predicament, his mind really was stuck on what Moran, Sebastian, had said about the criminal mastermind liking him. John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Moriarty was a criminal of the worst kind, a monster. For some reason his mind shifted over to the first day he'd spent here, when he allowed John to take his hand for the duration of the raping. He'd let John have his hand to grip the final time he'd forced him years ago at the pool, too. He flinched a little, sexual assault memories could do that to you, and suddenly knew he did believe Sebastian.

Horror, shock, and disbelief passed through him. Why would Moriarty do anything to comfort him? Why would he keep him as a live-in and spend time trying to have conversations with his stonily unresponsive captive? His initial thought was some kind of morbid curiosity, but he was rarely right the first time so he went with his next thought.

"Loneliness."

Sebastian confirmed it. "His other weakness. Believe me, he does not talk about that one ever."

Silence for a long moment, which he broke himself.

"How can you know?"

"Spend enough time around anyone and you eventually see things."

"See things like this?"

Moran stiffened and solidified his stance into one of an obedient soldier, turning to face his boss. Moriarty was standing just outside the bathroom, hands in his pockets of the expensive suit he'd not left the hotel in. John wondered what might have gotten on the old one to warrant the change. It was probably best not to know.

"And what..dare I ask, might I be seeing, Sebastian?"

It didn't take much for John to realize Moriarty's dead calm was a mask for the anger hidden just beneath. His eyes were dark, near black. The eyes swept the fair-sized bathroom, finally taking in the shattered mirror, him, and the shard still placed against a wrist, the blood dripping from the accidental cut.

"Moran. Return to your post. Your services are no longer required."

Relief that he'd escaped unscathed crossed over his features and then he was gone, leaving John alone. He suspected he was going to face punishment for his actions. A single glance at the situation and he knew his captor knew what had nearly transpired. The good news was that he likely thought Sebastian had only come to stop his suicide attempt and had no knowledge of the conversation between them. Well, it was better news for Moriarty's employee anyway. He doubted he would be granted any sort of reprieve as the "pet".

Moriarty removed his hands from his pockets and stepped inside, closing the bathroom door behind him. Suddenly the room seemed a heck of a lot more confined.

"I thought about paying you a visit before you came to me in this hotel, before you figured out I was alive. Maybe finishing you off so you could join your precious detective consultant in the afterlife." Moriarty shared, eyes randomly glancing upwards at the corners of the ceiling as he spoke.

"I didn't figure you to be one for mercy."

He'd always been an honest person. Why stop just because some vicious psychopath had him trapped in a bathroom? Besides, Moriarty could see through the lies, not unlike Mycroft. Wow, now there was a name that filled him with hot anger. He'd not spoken more than two word phrases to the elder Holmes brother since the day Sherlock died, despite numerous attempts on the part of the other to get in contact with him.

His thoughts vanished when Moriarty grinned rather maliciously at him, moving forward and stopping about a foot away. Too close.

"Oh, I'm not. But you just looked so sad already. Devastated. Alone. No longer running around being a nuisance to my work with your..partner. And it seems you've found a new fire to get you going again of late. That light in your eyes has returned. Determination to do good and not just be good, right Johnny?" He didn't want a reply and he didn't wait for one. "I've heard rumors of late. Hard to believe rumors about you."

John tensed but made sure not to give anything away. Moriarty couldn't possibly know what he'd been up to when Mycroft Holmes wasn't even aware. Interrogation apparently wasn't on the list for today's torments, however, and the man settled for taking hold of John's arm that held the sharp piece of glass.

He thought about using that piece to commit an act of homicide, but almost immediately discarded the idea. Even if it worked, he didn't believe Moran would hesitate to come in and shoot him dead. Moriarty eased the shard out of his loose grasp with ease, and then jammed it so deep into the small cut on his left arm that he swore it scraped bone. Searing pain exploded across the entirety of his arm but when he tried to reach to pull it out, the grip on that arm tightened until he thought his wrist would shatter.

"Suicide will not suffice for your end, Johnny. Oh no. It won't do at all."

The madness sparkled in Moriarty's eyes and he had to swallow down the bile and fear creeping up his throat.

"On your knees."

He followed the command, praying his obedience would mean the glass could be removed. It was taken out, so that it could be traced along his jawline and then throat. He kept himself very still, not wanting to give Moriarty a reason to cut him open. John was aware those were strange thoughts for a man convinced about taking his own life five minutes ago. Maybe he hadn't been as resigned to commit the act as he'd thought. He wished he was. Then he wouldn't be sitting with his knees on cold tile while Moriarty held a razor sharp piece of glass to his neck.

"I gave him a choice."

Somehow, John knew exactly who the "him" was, even before it was said. The pair of them had only ever had one man in common. His gaze flickered from watching the glass at his throat, to the dark eyes boring into his own.

"Three bullets. Three targets. They died, or he did."

Once again he found himself horrified. Sherlock had jumped because he'd had no other option. That had always been something that bothered him about the day it happened. Sherlock and suicide hadn't quite gone together. The man might have been reckless and disregarded his own safety quite frequently simply for the thrill of solving a case or discovering an answer, but the call from his friend on the roof had been different.

"You made him jump."

"The choice was his. It was hardly my fault he cared more for you than himself. I had hoped he wouldn't be so weak, so predictable. Then again, I was counting on it."

Spoken so matter-of-factly. Yes, John decided, he really would like to take that piece of glass and stab the other man in his cold, black heart.

"You said three targets."

Raising his blood covered right hand, he ticked them off. "You, the landlady, and the cop. Though, really, he jumped cause of you. Yours was the only name he spoke."

"He probably did that since you used me against him before."

"And why do you think that was?"

The glass slid into his chest so easily, like cutting through butter. John stared at the tool responsible for his great pain as Moriarty moved it about his chest, pushing it in an inch at most, before pulling it out and repeating at a different spot. Not deep enough to do any serious harm, but plenty deep enough to hurt like hell. He supposed it was lucky it'd taken till the fifth day for Moriarty to do more than just rape him over and over, have one-sided conversations, and, well, the fairly unpleasant beating that began his capture of course.

Jesus. Had he really become this numb to his situation? No wonder he'd considered suicide. He'd accepted this hell as his reality and that was certainly not all right. Suicidal thoughts now though..Moriarty had succeeded in what John knew he'd intended. He had wanted to ensure John wouldn't attempt suicide as a way out again and he wouldn't because now he understood. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped if he had had any other choice. It had been a sacrifice. A bloody stupid one.

Moriarty seemed to notice his mind was straying because he spoke his name, low and dangerous, and then shoved him so he fell flat on his back. The towel was ripped away and the glass being utilized as a weapon was drawing crimson lines down his inner thighs enthusiastically. His left arm still throbbed with pain so that remained limp at his side, but the other he repeatedly curled into a fist as he tried desperately to name each and every bone that resided in the hand. Each curl of his fist brought a wave of discomfort from what was possibly a fractured wrist. In comparison to the white hot pain radiating from his thighs as they were sliced into, it was tolerable and gave him something to focus on.

The agony was so intense, he hadn't noticed the cutting had ceased until Moriarty's face was suddenly in his, staring directly into his eyes. A quick glance down informed him that the weapon had been tossed aside somewhere. The eyes were lighter than before and the owner of those eyes looked puzzled a bit.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered softly into his ear. "It just gets to me that he thinks he can fool me. I've won. He may still breathe but I've won."

Before he could even so much as choke out a baffled word in return, Moriarty pushed inside of him in one smooth motion. He'd never even noticed him unzip his trousers. The previous times made it easier this time, and the blood served as an excellent lubrication to allow such an intrusion. He didn't _think_ he was going to anymore, he was going to. Jerking his head to the side, he threw up all over blood-soaked tile. Moriarty made a sound that he supposed was meant to mimic sympathy, and his hand moved up to brush locks of his hair back from his forehead. It was an annoyingly comforting gesture considering what was happening.

Two hours later and he'd been bathed, injuries stopped from bleeding with a chemical hemostat acquired God knows how. It wasn't optimal treatment and his wounds were going to need much more care than that, but it served the purpose of keeping him alive and conscious, courtesy of Moran. Yes, how fortunate for him that Moriarty wanted to keep him breathing. Breathing... He knew he shouldn't think such things but ever since he'd heard Moriarty slip out that Sherlock was breathing, he held the hope that it was true.

He half laid, half sat upright on the bed, pillows cushioning his back and head, a sheet drawn up and crumpled around his lower stomach. Moriarty had gone out again, for maybe an hour, and when he'd returned he'd been on the phone, speaking harsh words to whomever was on the other end. John had just continued to sit where Moran had put him, staring out the window at the mid-afternoon sunlight.

The call must have ended because suddenly Moriarty plopped down beside him on the bed. When he'd gone out, he had exchanged the ruined Westwood suit for a pair of jeans and a simple cotton t-shirt. Easing himself into a similar position as John, he switched on the television. Temporarily, he shifted, and then produced a small package in his hand, holding it out towards John.

"Gum?"

Never had such a simplistic question made him so afraid. He hated witnessing the human side of Moriarty. It made him feel like he could fix him because he was a doctor and doctors helped people. He let the fear fade into the recesses of his mind as he continued to stare at the telly blankly. He'd been given pain pills but was still in pain and aside from that, he was so tired.

Reaching out to accept the gum, he asked, "Figure on a name for me?"

Moriarty let out a delighted laugh and he ignored the voice inside his head that was telling him he didn't mind that laugh. An arm came around his shoulder, tugging him gently down so that his head rested on Moriarty's right shoulder and chest.

"You're so very tired. You need to sleep."

He really was exhausted, the medication enough to at least dull the incessant throbbing of the nerves in his whole body. Fear and pain could only keep him awake for so long, and his current pillow was actually kind of comfortable. The feel of the wrapped stick of gum held in his palm became just another fading sensation. Darkness began to creep around the edges of his mind and his eyes grew heavy. As they began to flutter closed, he felt lips ghost along the top of his forehead.

"To live is to suffer, my hound."

Hound, not just dog or mutt. A hound was known for its loyalty and was a symbol of bravery and honor. He did believe Moriarty had just complimented him. That was new. He drifted into a deep sleep and somehow knew he would sleep without any nightmares to plague him. A relief, when his waking hours were a nightmare unto itself.

///

Jim glanced down at his insistent phone. He'd fallen asleep along with Dr. Watson some time ago. Seven hours had passed actually and his duties were impatiently awaiting him. He had received plenty of consulting opportunities since the time he began keeping the man curled against his side in this hotel room. He'd accepted only a few since he was otherwise occupied these last few days.

Shutting off the device, he shoved it in his pocket and pulled the doctor closer, switching to a news channel before tossing the remote onto the desk beside the bed. A recent suicide was being reported of a man who jumped to his death. He smirked. What they didn't know was that the man's wife had been dosing her husband's contact lensing with a solution that made him prone to depression. He'd seen it on a show once and so when the opportunity presented itself, he decided to try it out. Jim wouldn't be the only one in for a payday. The husband's estate was quite substantial and now belonged solely to the widow.

When the man in his arms shifted and began to wake, he realized what he was doing. He'd taken him prisoner and hurt him to make him pay for coming and trying to murder him. Torment had certainly been his game for the most part, but then there were those other parts, where he gave John a break and merely sat with him. Sometimes they talked, or rather he talked and John pretended to be ignoring him. Sometimes they watched television together or listened to music. In a way, it was a game in itself. Not one he was used to. Initially he'd found trying out domesticity to be amusing, but he found he rather liked it. A situation most inadvisable for a man such as him.

Bright eyes blinked up at him sleepily. Registering just who they were looking at, the eyes grew cold and distant. The reflection of hatred and a desire for self-preservation. He wasn't sure whether he wished to kill or kiss the man staring at him. After a long moment, the gaze became more tired than anything else, and looked away.

Damn. He was enjoying his time spent with John, who was supposed to be an average person. Average people were boring and dull. John wasn't the least bit boring or dull. Unacceptable. Why didn't he think he was? Why couldn't he? It must be having someone to control and hurt that pleased him. Another glance at those eyes told him differently. He very much liked John.

"Stay," he told John, and slipped off the bed and out of the room.

He had to be mistaken. He was never mistaken. Distance would do him good right now.

///

John watched him go but his thoughts remained elsewhere. Sherlock could be alive. It was possible. A long shot since the only evidence favoring such an outcome came from a man who'd destroyed Sherlock's reputation which resulted in his suicide. At least that was what he thought until yesterday. It could be that Moriarty was merely toying with him, giving a false belief in order to prolong his suffering over losing his best friend. Still, there was that feeling deep within him that he couldn't shake. Hope.

///

Day six. This was day six. He wondered if Moran had just been deceiving him about Moriarty letting him go. What if the man decided to take him with and continue treating him like nothing more than a pet or toy or whatever the insane man thought he was? He hadn't realized he'd made up his mind until the door was unlocking and Moriarty was stepping inside. He'd been spending the last hour walking back and forth in front of the window, out of some small idea that someone might see him and think something was amiss. That, and it took his mind off of the injuries. He needed a hospital. Surely he faced infection from so many cuts and stab wounds. If he couldn't get to a hospital and he couldn't get away, then maybe he could make it so Moriarty did want to leave him be.

Boring didn't work, so being a nuisance was worth a try.

"If Sherlock is alive. That means he beat you at your own game."

Moriarty froze mid-motion as he'd reached to turn on the lights to the room when he'd entered. A smile pasted onto his face, utterly fake, and he turned to regard John, waiting for whatever he was getting at. John wasn't really sure himself. He was sort of just going with this. Say anything that could get to him being the goal. Then maybe he'd be dead or out of this damned room. Either way, he'd be free.

"Does it bother you? Knowing you couldn't win against Sherlock?"

"I did win. He died."

His next words stuck in his throat temporarily. So maybe Moriarty had been messing with him. He gaze scanned the man now wearing yet another suit, wondering how much he wanted that freedom and how to go about it. Then he continued on.

"You said he was alive which means he might be. If he lives, you didn't win. Alive or dead, Sherlock's still better than you."

Now the smile that spread across Moriarty's face appeared genuine. "Are you trying to upset me, Dr. Watson?"

"You know, I'd say you lost your mind, keeping me here as a pet and thinking you and me can somehow be like Sherlock and I were, but-well-we both know you've been crazy long before ever meeting me."

Moriarty made a noise he couldn't distinguish, but he thought he was getting somewhere so he went the full distance.

"You've never been loved. It's sad, heart-breaking really. And you never will be, you continue this way."

The heated gaze was positively deadly. Death. This was probably going to earn him death. Oh well... He went for it.

"I don't think I can even hate you anymore. I mean, you're a monster, no mistaking it. And I hate you for what you've done, to me, to Sherlock, to all those innocent people. But honestly, Moriarty, knowing you'll never know love, I pity you."

He said the words simply, like he was stating facts. He figured Moriarty could appreciate that since he did it so often. Then again, even if he spoke the truth, it was an unwanted truth.

The first blow hit him in the face so hard it felt like his teeth were rattling around his mouth. He'd known Moriarty capable of dealing damage since he'd learned the hard way that the man was stronger than he appeared, but still, it hurt. The second blow took him to the ground but he didn't fight it. There was little point in fighting back when he knew Moran would enter and put a stop to him if he got the better of Moriarty.

He bit back a scream when a kick landed against bruised ribs and he heard a crack. Blow after blow rained down upon his already messed up body and he just laid there, eyes squeezed shut tight to try and handle the agony of the assault. Even with pain radiating throughout his whole self, he managed to maintain a single thought that made it just bearable. He'd gotten the upper hand here. Moriarty beating him down like this for mere words said, meant he'd gotten to the criminal mastermind.

Blood was welling up in his mouth as his attacker focused on pulverizing his face. So this was how it was going to end, bloody and naked and so alone. He didn't like being alone.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, he became aware that the attack had stopped. When had that happened? The passage of time was really a tricky thing when you were getting the crap beat out of you. A rougher face than Moriarty's appeared in his now hazy line of sight. Moran. He was saying something to John but it sounded garbled. He did manage to make out the last bit that was being said to him though.

"I told you he was pissed about it."

Pissed about what? Oh, the whole inconceivable ideas that Moriarty liked John, and that the man got lonely. Ridiculous notions and even more ridiculous, it made John want to laugh, even through the blood and tears streaming down his badly swelling face. He did think he actually managed a smile before finally losing consciousness. God, he hadn't smiled since Sherlock died. He supposed it was only fitting he manage to smile one last time before his own death.

To live is to suffer, Moriarty had said. If he died, it seemed his own suffering had ended. Maybe he'd get to see Sherlock again. That was his final thought, and then he thought nothing.


	4. Sherlock's Visits

The first night Sherlock visited 221b, it was after four in the morning, the time it took for John to finally fall asleep. Over six months had gone by since he falsified his own suicide, a decision that pained him to have done. It was necessary, however, or he'd have lost everyone that mattered. He'd have lost John.

His temporary return stemmed from a series of texts he received from his brother over the last few weeks. Mycroft hadn't known he'd faked his death until then, and apparently the suspicion arose from someone who was meant to be as dead as Sherlock. Jim..Moriarty...still alive and not at all fooled by Sherlock's vanishing act. The first few texts had meant nothing. Then there came a text that meant everything, sent two weeks ago.

_Bravo, you managed to fool me for a full five months. It's time to stop this game now, Sherlock. -MH_

_You are not the only one to play dead. -MH_

_He's back. Now do you understand the gravity of the situation? -MH_

_Come home. John needs you. -MH_

This text had finally elicited a response from him, annoyed his brother would attempt to use John to get him to stop pretending to be dead. He was only doing this to keep his friends safe. If his brother couldn't understand that, it was his own problem, not Sherlock's.

_Really? I didn't expect you to stoop so low to get me to return and clean up your mess. Whatever Moriarty does to your precious government is of your concern, not mine. -SH_

_Two weeks ago, John made an attempt on Moriarty's life. Do I have your attention? -MH_

Mycroft wouldn't lie about something like this, not even to draw him out. A sinking feeling came over Sherlock and before texting back, he'd swallowed hard to try and erase the growing fear. The text that meant everything would be his brother's next and final text before Sherlock came home.

_What happened? -SH_

_He failed. Moriarty kept him for six days, then released him. -MH_

Now here he was, creeping silently into John's bedroom, almost two weeks since the texts from Mycroft. Maybe he should have come back earlier. Maybe he should never have gone at all. No, he'd had no choice but to go, to play dead. Yet the choice had apparently not entirely saved John, which had been his intention all along.

He made it five minutes sitting by John's side as he tossed and turned. Then he exited as silently as he had come. He couldn't afford John seeing him, exposing his lie. He feared it would hurt John more to know he was still alive.

///

The second night Sherlock visited 221b, he stood in the shadows of the room and watched John throughout the night. Like the previous occasion, he tossed and turned and cried out. This time he stayed to see what sleep was like for his friend through the duration. He woke every hour or less, and after four hours, he practically flew out of the bed to run into the bathroom. Retching noises emitted from the other side of the door as Sherlock moved to lean against it. He had to force himself to leave then, before he gave in and revealed himself.

///

The third night Sherlock visited 221b, he'd been unable to visit because John had not slept. When he finally decided to risk it, he slipped inside the flat to find John had fallen asleep on the sofa. Quietly, he moved away from the front door and knelt beside where John was sleeping. He was moaning softly, his eyes squeezed forcefully shut, face tightened in a sort of grimace. Before he was even aware he was doing it, his hand had reached forward to touch the stress lines on John's face. There were bags under the eyes and he traced his fingers over those as well. Slowly, his hand moved up to the hairline to gently brush back the hair.

He froze when John made a different noise, afraid he'd been found out. John shifted slightly on the sofa, leaning into the touch, but he didn't wake. Relaxing, he resumed his repetitive action and was pleased to find it seemed to allow John to sleep more peacefully. The grimace faded away and the tension around his eyes and forehead lessened. He stayed this way for another twenty minutes before his fear of being caught by John or Mrs. Hudson got to him, and he reluctantly left.

///

Three days later, Mrs. Hudson left to see relatives out of the country and Sherlock came to the decision it was the perfect opportunity to ensure John got some actual sleep. He set about making a few alterations to John's favorite tea set while the man was away, working at the hospital he presumed. When the alterations were complete, he vacated the flat to await his good friend's return. John came home late, nearly after midnight. It was a long time to be working a shift at the hospital considering how early he'd started, but Sherlock pushed those thoughts away in favor of observing from behind a car parked across the street from their building.

This marked the fourth night Sherlock visited 221b, and he slipped in to find himself satisfied John's habits had not changed entirely. Whenever John came home from work, he made himself a cup of tea and sat down in his chair to enjoy it. When Sherlock had been there, often John would watch him, whatever he was doing. Now, as he entered the flat, he found his friend asleep, television on of some crap crime show or other. Glancing into the cup, Sherlock was satisfied to see he had ingested most of it, securing a solid night of sleep for him.

He grabbed one of John's arms, flinging it over his shoulder, and then picked up the rest of him, carrying him in a fireman's hold. Taking him into the bedroom, he dropped him on the bed and realized he'd done it a tad more carelessly than he could have, but brushed it off. Things to do and all that.

Sherlock started on his shoes and socks and was just getting the last sock off when he felt another presence in the room. He already knew who it was without turning. The only tell that he'd noticed was a brief pause in his work, and then he continued getting John out of his dirty clothes.

"Is this really necessary?"

He ignored his brother and sat back on his heels once he'd successfully removed everything but the pants. He had ulterior motives aside from making John more comfortable in the bed and Mycroft already knew so he continued. It was bad. Somehow he'd thought just maybe Moriarty had kept John captive to taunt and gloat but do little physical damage. An unlikely idea in the first place. But when he didn't have all the facts, it was one he could convince himself of, until now.

Nearly a month had passed since Moriarty had hold of John. The injuries nearly a month old and still, his stomach was wrapped tight with bandages, a section of his left arm was wrapped in white gauze, multi-colored bruises were scattered across near every inch of skin, and there were also a number of healing cuts and stab wounds, primarily on the upper chest area. The most disturbing injuries were lower on his body, between his legs. There was extensive bruising on the inner thighs, along with multiple slash marks. He knew his crimes. These were injuries of a sexual nature.

His breath caught in his throat and he found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the mottled flesh. He hadn't profiled James Moriarty as someone sadistic enough to rape. To make others suffer, certainly. To gain pleasure from toying with people, absolutely. To go so far with John, didn't fit. Did Moriarty really take such offense to an attempt on his life? He didn't believe so. A man that convinced of his own power and intellect wouldn't need to lower himself to such an act. What was he missing?

A sigh reminded him of his brother's presence in the room. "At the time of hospitalization he was in a coma for a week. Hundreds of cuts and bruises were documented, along with several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, stab wounds on the chest and left arm, and anal trauma from obvious repeated assault. Upon waking, patient checked out against medical advice, refusing to press charges or make a statement."

"He knew it wouldn't have mattered. Nobody gets to Moriarty."

Mycroft closed the medical file in his hand, observing his brother who was yet unable to remove his eyes from the cuts on the inner thighs of the prone man. "Do stop that. Blaming yourself will do nothing to help John."

"This happened because of John's association with me. I owe him to see what I brought on him."

"This happened because John made a fool-hardy attempt on Moriarty's life."

"You're blaming John?"

"I blame Moriarty, as you rightly should. For God's sake, Sherlock, your self-flagellation only serves to empower your enemies and do little else."

Sherlock moved closer and leaned down, examining the bandaged ribs with prying fingers. He had to switch over to looking with a clinical mind, not emotional. He didn't do emotions. His brother didn't either, yet...

"He will heal."

Was this an attempt to comfort him? He kept his focus on examining the wounds John sustained, cataloging every inch of skin. Mycroft, of all people, didn't do comfort, especially to him. Too touchy, feely for the Holmes brothers. He had no interest in playing this game of pretending everything was all right.

"Physically. But Moriarty has always prided himself more on the mind. That's what I'm worried for."

"Worried, Sherlock?"

The patronizing tone made him rethink his brother had actually been trying to be sensitive. He fixed a scowl onto the man standing in the doorway but it hardly seemed to have an effect, as usual. Mycroft gazed back at him, a neutral gaze setting in.

"Evidence seems to suggest he is mostly healthy in mind. Rather, no worse than before at the very least. Aside from his disrupted sleep pattern of late, he's been fully functional. He goes to and from this flat or his second flat, has resumed speaking to his sister and Lestrade, though with the detective it is strictly business. Seems he still partially blames the man for turning against you and allowing your reputation to be tarnished."

That was putting it lightly. A single seed of doubt was a powerful thing. He tore his critical search from John's body to Mycroft's face. What had he meant, second flat? He supposed he had heard of people having a difficult time remaining in surroundings that reminded them of something they'd rather not remember. Anyway, it was something to be disregarded for now. This business with Lestrade though. That was interesting. Oh, his brother was speaking still.

"For you to know," Mycroft was saying, "If you require such reassurance."

Sherlock scoffed to himself. The words were said as though they meant nothing to the speaker but that was patently untrue. For Mycroft to keep tabs on John even in this reduced capacity meant he held concern for his well-being and future activities. Interesting.

"I did believe you to be truly dead. Everyone did. Though now I suspect Miss Hooper may have had knowledge of your continued survival."

He stared at Mycroft who was staring at the lines on John's thighs. There was an emotion he didn't ever see in his brother's eyes. A deep sadness that he thought didn't have entirely to do with John's condition. When Mycroft lifted his gaze to meet his own, Sherlock looked away.

"Sentiment... You said caring was not an advantage. Look at you now."

"Yes, well, it hardly seems to stop us at times."

"Stop us from what?" he asked, absently stroking the side of John's face.

"Caring."

Sherlock noticed what he'd been doing and stilled, lowering the hand back to John's own limp one, then looked to his brother.

"You need to speak to John. Tell him he can't live like this. He should be seeing his therapist or whatever."

"He needs you I assume."

"Just do it," he snapped at his brother, who was settling into a chair at the desk on the other side of the room.

"I'm afraid John doesn't speak to me anymore. Not since..your untimely passing."

Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "What? Why?"

"Probably has something to do with my role in your demise."

There weren't words for that admission. His brother did tend to exaggerate though. He wondered if this was not one of those times.

"John has been up to something over the past few months. Visits to the local university, visits to places out of the city, unknown-though I do believe a woman may be involved. I have not done any excess prying there, however, as giving John his privacy was the least I could do after..."

"What did you do? What could have made John so mad that he won't even talk to you?"

"I gave Moriarty your life story."

Sherlock froze, the betrayal spoken so simply. "And why would you do that?"

"When he was in my custody, I gave him your life story, he gave me information I required. In the end-"

"It resulted in my 'dying'. Wonderful. Thanks for that."

Mycroft was silent. Whether he had anything more to say would either have to wait or never be known because an idea struck him far too forcefully to wait another moment.

"Whatever John's been up to, maybe he wrote about it. Has he written in his blog since my..fall?"

The man shook his head once. "No...I don't believe so. I monitored the site for a few months before it clearly became obvious it wasn't worth the effort."

"John's written in his blog..twice, not counting the comments section. I fancy John."

Two sets of blue eyes glanced over to the door. Mycroft's assistant was leaning against the door's frame, her own eyes glued to her cell phone. Her full attention switched over to Sherlock as she shrugged off his surprise at both her sudden presence and her sudden confession.

"Don't ever tell him I said that."

Anthea shifted towards Mycroft, though her interest was once again invested in her phone as she did so. "Twenty minutes, Sir."

Mycroft waved her away without sparing another glance. He was already peering over at the desk beside the bed and Sherlock matched the look, grabbing up the laptop. Flipping it open, the password prompt greeted him. Hm... It was never too difficult to crack John's rather pathetic attempts at a password, but he had been away for half a year.

"Oh, obvious."

He glared at his brother. "Do keep your thoughts to yourself. I haven't cracked a single case in six months. I need this."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said, sitting near him on the bed in order to get a view of the computer screen himself.

"What?"

He didn't bother hiding his annoyance.

"That's the password."

"You said you weren't keeping tabs on him much."

"A simple deduction, Sherlock. Something I see you've become rusty at while you've been laying low."

His eyes narrowed in irritation but he tried the entry anyway and it worked. His unfriendly expression lightened slightly when he arched an eyebrow in curiosity as to how his brother had known that would be the selected password.

The explanation was given dryly, the man bored. "I told you before, he needs you. Must you be so naive?"

What was that supposed to mean? Utilizing his name for a password was out of character for John and certainly far too easy for a hacker to guess. He didn't understand what his brother was getting at and it bothered him. More than he'd like to admit so he pushed it out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.

The blog up, he leaned in to read the only two entries entered in the period between his falsified death and now. Mycroft leaned forward beside him to read but he ignored the stifling closeness. He was never this close to his brother.

/

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

**DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

_4th January_

33 ENTRY: **Released From Hospital**

Even if you can't hear or see me, I'm right beside you. I still believe. Don't be dead.

 

_COMMENTS_

John! What the hell happened? It's been six days since anyone's seen or heard from you. Explain now! Are you okay? _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

Surprised you even noticed. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

I've been sober since you went missing. Still am. What happened? I want to see you. _-Harry_

_Comment_

Don't be thick. File a report. I want the bastard who did this to you. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

I'm fine to the both of you. Don't really feel like a visit, Harry. _-JW_

_Comment_

I'm so relieved to hear you're all right. Let us celebrate your surviving another day with a pint, yeah? _-Mike Stamford_

_Comment_

Why a visit to hospital? You should visit me more often. You've been so distracted since... I worry, dear. _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Comment_

Will you see me? I haven't seen you for months. Just a quick visit, no questions. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

No, Greg. I can't. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

At least you're speaking to me again. Keep it together. You're not alone. _-G. Lestrade_

_Comment_

I'm sorry..for everything. I should never have doubted him. As much as I dislike him, I shouldn't have let my feelings influence my reports. Lestrade has told me some things and I am so sorry for my part in spreading the lie. I know who hurt you, John. Maybe if we would have believed you both, then this wouldn't have happened to you. No need to reply. I don't expect you to. _-S. Donovan_

_Comment_

I want to see you, John. Don't push me away. Not this time. Please. _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

Fine, Harry. You'll need to come here. Moving about is still a chore right now. _-JW_

/

_23rd January_

34 Entry: **Can't Define What I'm After**

All that I feel are the parts of me I'm faking. How many times can I pray to my shadow? They say it only takes time but I'm shattered.

_COMMENTS_

Come for a visit. _-Harry_

_Comment_

I'm glad you come around the station but please, have a pint or something nothing to do with whatever it is that new job requires. We used to be friends. Now I hardly see you and it's only when you need something. I can't lose you, too. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

I can't pretend things are like they were. How can you? _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

I'm not a fool. I know you're into something dangerous. I wish you'd ask for my help but since you're about as stubborn as he was, fine. Just be careful. _-G. Lestrade_

_Comment_

Oh, dear. Will you join me for afternoon tea sometime soon? _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Comment_

I have news. I've been to see Clara and she's decided to stay with me at our townhouse for a while. Will you come? _-Harry_

_Reply to Mrs. Hudson_

Tea would be lovely. I look forward to it. _-JW_

_Comment_

I am always willing to help you, John. But when you told me you were tired of being a poor, depressing sod and took the job, I didn't know what you were dealing with. Do you even know? _-TW_

_Comment_

I'll pop in for a visit tomorrow afternoon? _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Reply to TW_

You don't need to worry about me. I eagerly await your arrival, Mrs. H. _-JW_

_Comment_

I procured some information. I could send it to you, if you'd like? _-TW_

_Reply to TW_

Don't risk yourself for me. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

I would always risk myself for you. _-TW_

_Reply to TW_

Thank you. I mean that. But I know what I've gotten myself into. I have to handle this on my own. Not safe. _-JW_

_Comment_

Clara and I are going to lunch on Friday. Join, please? _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

All right. Lunch would be fine. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

Yes! Can't wait! _-Harry_

/

The phone began to ring on the bedside. He turned back to the blog but it was at an end. He clicked out of the site and shut the laptop, returning it to its place beside the bed. Did John always have a landline? He thought there'd only been a cell phone but he could have been wrong. Most of the time he didn't pay attention to the details when he didn't think they mattered. He settled into a seated position against the bed's headboard, taking John's hand in his own and taking the pulse as he did. It was reflex, and he just wanted to be sure everything was normal inside.

Sobbing came over the phone after the answering machine picked up. Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other before looking to the phone.

_"Jjjj..Jooohn. John. It's Clara. Something's happened..to Harry. It's Harry, John. Someone attacked her. A man forced her to drink until she passed out. She drank a lot, John. It's serious. She..She needs to see you, John. Please, we need you. We need you here."_

The machine clicked off.

"Still think this is about you?"

Sherlock scowled at his brother but he didn't have an answer for him.


	5. The Past Rekindled

When John woke, feeling surprisingly well-rested, he blinked away the sleepiness from his eyes. He didn't remember finding his way to his bed or undressing to his pants. He didn't remember inviting Mycroft Holmes into his flat, let alone his bedroom, either.

He sat up fast, wincing and holding a hand to his ribcage. The sheet crumpled forgotten, down around his waist. Staring at the man staring rather intently at him, he cleared his throat, thoughts racing through his mind. Did Mycroft somehow know about what he'd been up to these past couple of months? Worse yet, had he learned of what Moriarty had done to him? He'd been brought to a hospital, either by Moriarty's command or by someone who found him probably dumped on some random street, so he supposed Mycroft having knowledge of that incident was a given. Damn. He remembered his present condition as being less than ideal and attempted to cover the worst of it with the sheet, suddenly self-conscious.

"A bit late for that, don't you think?"

There were a lot of different reactions he considered having, but he settled for resignation. Although he'd just slept a good while, he was feeling very tired with Mycroft's weighty presence in the room. The man could read a person as easily as he read a newspaper.

"Right, well, can you enlighten me as to what you're doing in my bedroom? Um..How long have you been there exactly?"

"For as long as you've been asleep. Does that bother you?"

"Does that-Are you joking?"

"Pulling your leg, perhaps." Mycroft said, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Then he became very serious, very fast. "I need you to come with me, John. Please get dressed."

"Why?" he demanded.

He decided he did not want to go anywhere with the other man. For the last six months he'd said nothing more than "piss off" to Mycroft, and now he had the nerve to come uninvited into his bedroom. There couldn't possibly be a miscommunication going on here.

Mycroft climbed to his feet, leaning on the umbrella grasped in his right hand with practiced ease. His gaze was ever so intimidating but John wasn't about to let it change anything he had to say to the man. Problem was, he didn't want to say anything to him and he was beginning to get unnerved by the continuing silence that permeated the room.

"I understand your antics of late have been less than..usual."

Swallowing hard, he didn't back down from looking right into those annoyingly forceful eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Your blog, TW, an informant who has been helping you with whatever it is you've been up to."

"So you don't know."

The relief flooded through him but it didn't last long when Mycroft moved on and hadn't missed a beat in exposing John's secrets.

"I know Moriarty is alive and I know you didn't bother to tell anyone."

The comment initially had John rolling his eyes, and then the man added, "I know what he did to you, too. Don't know why you'd bother to hide it."

"Really? The great Mycroft Holmes can't figure that out?" he spoke with such derision, it obviously chided the posh man, but he covered it by tilting his head to the side and looking sympathetically towards John's marred body.

"John."

"What?" he practically yelled it.

John was getting worked up and he'd sworn he wasn't going to let his emotions get to him for once. Highly complicated to follow through on though, when the man he was trying desperately not to think of had a brother standing in his room. The important thing was that Mycroft was none the wiser about his activities in the NSA. His kept secret fell away when the serious expression returned, all business and calm.

"Your sister is in the hospital. I've a car waiting outside to take us there. It may have been Moriarty's doing. Must you be told anything else?"

He went with Mycroft.

///

_Two days later_

Inspector Lestrade paced back and forth impatiently from one end of the basement morgue to the other. An anonymous tip leading to an exhumation order, expedited by a certain government official he highly suspected he knew, and here he was with Molly Hooper and several of his men, waiting for the result. Had he been miraculously fooled for half a year? If anyone could fake their death and get away with it, he supposed it would be Sherlock Holmes.

The lid of the casket finally removed, it became immediately clear he'd fooled them all. The casket was empty. His eyes roamed along the interior where a body belonged in irritation and relief. He'd been tricked, but his friend was alive. He still had the opportunity to apologize for doubting Sherlock like a right prick.

"Well if he's not in there, then where the bloody hell is he?"

His gaze found Molly, quite by accident, and he caught the lack of astonishment on her face. In fact, there wasn't a hint of surprise or happiness upon learning there wasn't a body in the casket and Sherlock was alive. He prided himself on being pretty decent at detecting and this was no exception.

"Molly, you knew. All this time you knew Sherlock wasn't in there."

Her eyes became as wide as saucers and she stuttered over whatever her response was to be. Lestrade would demand answers from her later but for now, something far more interesting was occurring. Sherlock Holmes, dressed in the same long black coat, same blue scarf wrapped around his neck, strolled in like it was any other day.

Molly was still trying to get the words out but a brisk wave of his hand in her general direction, along with his words, shut her up.

"Stop that. Hello, Lestrade. Looks like we can save the explanations since you've already seen I'm every bit alive and not in that casket."

"Save the explanations? What? Are you mad? Explain to me how that's possible!"

Sherlock had the nerve to literally try to wave him quiet as well. That really set him off. He'd worked an extra shift to personally oversee this sudden request for an exhumation and would rather go home to his family than be conferring with an assumed dead man, no matter how glad he was to learn he was among the living.

"Now see here, Sherlock Holmes! I want answers. I want to know how-no, nevermind how. I want to know why you pretended to be dead."

"A simple enough matter to work out. Now, I came to see you about something else entirely. I need to know what you've been working with John on. What have the pair of you been up to while I was away? That's what interests me right now."

"Oh," he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. "So because answers are what interest you, that's what we'll talk about? Right. Nice to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Mm..thank you. Now, John."

"John. Now there's someone who is going to be upset about you. He's been having quite the miserable existence, what with seeing his best mate die before his eyes. At least, that's what he thought he saw. Well, I won't be talking to you about anything that's between me and John. I refuse. Now go and tell John you're not dead."

"Lestrade, please. I need to know."

He'd said please, but it certainly hadn't sounded like he meant it. To him, it was the mimic of a word he'd heard used in order to get something and was merely repeating. In other words, it was very much like Sherlock. And like Sherlock, he refused to listen.

"Come on. Tell me. What could it be that would possibly endanger his sister? Because if it isn't Moriarty, it may have something to do with whatever John's been getting into in my absence."

It was nice to know Sherlock was willing to tell him something, but it was far from enough. No, he wasn't having any of this. Not when the report he was going to have to file would be a real headache, and not when John was still in the dark about his flatmate being alive.

"Oh, so you know about that then. Upstairs, fourth floor, go and see him. We're done talking. I have loads of paperwork to do now and you, you would do well to lay low. There will be a lot of questions for you and answers will be expected for most of them."

Sherlock's bored look became..almost uncertain and fearful. This was different and he suspected he knew what was causing such an expression. It explained his skittish, rapid movements as well. Sherlock Holmes was nervous and worried about going to see John. _Sherlock_ was.

"Room 407. Go on. Go!"

///

She was asleep. Harry had finally fallen asleep after hours of panicking and fear. He could hardly blame her for being so afraid. A man had kept her hostage in her own home and forced down drink after drink until she was throwing it up, and then he made her drink some more. When she finally passed out, that was that. Clara had arrived to find Harry lying on the floor with barely a pulse, the medical bus arriving moments later. Clara hadn't called them, so either a neighbor had somehow caught on that something was amiss, or the attacker himself had made the call. It didn't matter. John would choke him out either way when he got his hands on the culprit.

Mycroft hadn't hung around long after taking him to his sister's room, which he was relieved about. Though the two suits standing just outside the closed door told him he wouldn't be getting to do much of anything in the near future without Mycroft knowing about it. Sure the men were there as a manner of protection for his sister, and maybe him, too, but they were also there to inform on him to their boss.

When he was certain his sister was definitely sleeping without trouble, he let himself go. He expected there to be tears, silent ones. The quiet tears turned into sobs, however, and once started they couldn't be kept in. It was a culmination of events really. The past month, struggling with putting an end to the NSA mission he couldn't wait to get distance from, though he knew he was doing the right thing, remaining at the forefront of his mind. Then there was the stress of keeping his distance from people either out of anger or need to keep them safe while he worked his cover, the torment and injuries dealt by Moriarty, and losing Sherlock. None of it was easy and almost losing his sister had him at his wits end.

He never heard the door open but something made him turn towards it when he'd managed to stifle the loudest of the sobs. Sherlock Holmes stood just inside the now closed door. John turned back to his sister, wiped his eyes, glanced at Clara, who was asleep in the corner of the room, curled into herself, then dared to look again. Sherlock was still there. Sherlock was actually standing in the room. It wasn't wishful thinking or his imagination run wild.

Sherlock stared hard at him, those ever piercing eyes boring into his very soul, and then deemed it fit to speak. "Hello, John. I'm..not dead. Always been alive you see."

John stood, walked straight over to stand in front of Sherlock, and sighed very tiredly. "Well, of course you are."

Then he socked the other man in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. Another punch to the face ensured he was unconscious. Once certain he wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon, John returned to his sister's bedside and resumed holding her arm tenderly as she slept.

The following morning, John had managed to fall asleep partially resting on the hospital bed. His sister was still out, but bleary eyes told him Clara was awake and at Harry's side again. When she saw he was awake, her gaze moved downward to the floor before returning to him.

"Uh, who's the bloke on the floor?"

"Nobody."

"Oh my."

John sat up straighter as Mycroft came through the door and immediately zeroed in on his brother's prone form. Scratch that, his brother's slowly shifting and waking form. The slightly querying eyes moved over to John.

"I thought it would be best if he revealed he was in fact alive, in front of witnesses, to prevent unnecessary trauma. It seems it did not prevent you from believing he was not real? Or wait... Ah. What did he say?"

"His exact words?" He didn't wait for a response, just repeated what he'd been told automatically. "Hello, John. I'm not dead. There was a bit more, hardly worth mentioning. Guess I hit him harder than I thought. Well-deserved though."

"That I don't doubt." Mycroft said, even as he stooped to pull his brother straight.

Sherlock pushed his brother away to stand stiffly, facing John as though waiting for something. He caught the frown starting to grow on his recently thought dead friend and turned away in disgust. His own face remained neutral despite his feelings, unwilling to show Sherlock his unhappiness.

"I hope you don't expect anything from me. The damage is already done."

"Why are you upset? I'm the one who had to fake my death and spend six boringly dull months making sure no one knew I was alive. I did that to keep you safe, keep everyone safe. What's the problem?"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started.

John gritted his teeth and refocused on watching his sister. She looked peaceful but knew there was likely a war going on in her mind. A part of her that desired rest and solitude, and the part that wouldn't let her and would persistently remind her of the damage done. It was unavoidable. He took her hand and squeezed it in order to reassure himself as well as her, that they were together and safe. Clara, meanwhile, was beginning to look alarmed. He gave her her own look of assurance that it was okay and she made to try and ignore everyone in the room, save for Harry.

"What? Stop being so sensitive. Yes, you thought I was dead. Yes, I'm sure the emotional ramifications of that are significant, but your sister has been attacked and we should get to the bottom of that."

"I find out you're alive and all you want to do is solve another mystery?" he asked, eyes stuck on watching Clara soothingly brush the hair away from Harry's face.

"Yes, well, no, not only. But John, time could be of the essence and so-"

"My sister is lying in hospital. She almost died. How can you act like this? Be so cold?"

He felt like he'd very much already had this conversation before with Sherlock but he was honestly hoping that somehow, in his absence, maybe his friend had learned a thing or two about the real world. He wasn't so lucky.

Sherlock had the tenacity to sound impatient with him. "By understanding I can't change anything simply by _feeling_ more."

"Really, now. And people think _I'm_ cold-blooded."

John froze, completely. He wasn't breathing. Slowly he turned about to find Jim Moriarty standing at the door. When he caught John's gaze, he smirked. The men stationed outside the hospital room must have left sometime while he was asleep, because no one did anything as the criminal sauntered into the room. Until Sherlock did. Moriarty made the mistake of thinking he could approach John, and apparently that was a no-no.

The criminal consultant was being slammed against the wall next to the door by Sherlock in one swift motion. He held Moriarty there with a single arm pressed to his chest, the other flexing and unflexing, obviously wishing he had a gun.

"I don't know how you managed to pull it off, but I am more than happy to put a bullet in you, do the job good and proper."

"Ooooh. Terrifying." Moriarty mocked.

Making up his mind, he stood and faced the man who'd tortured him for six days. He'd never suffered more than when it was by this man's doing, especially when he had had Sherlock taken from him. He hated Moriarty, but he had determined to never let himself be crushed down to the point of giving up.

"Did you do this to my sister?"

"Why no, John. I did not. I think we both know you would know if I had."

He ignored the stares coming from both Holmes' and nodded once. "Yes."

"I came to extend my wish for your dear sibling's swift recovery, in the form of a gift. I suppose it's really for Sherlock. But..we know how that bond works, so a gift for him is a gift for you."

"What could you possibly give me that I would ever want?" snarled Sherlock, shoving Moriarty against the wall when he started to push off of it.

"Your reputation, as the one and only detective consultant." Moriarty responded as though it were obvious and Sherlock was being dense.

John realized the extreme anger permeating from Sherlock against the criminal mastermind was for him. Usually Sherlock couldn't help but hold a little interest in the man who was on his intellectual level. Now, though, it was barely contained fury and perhaps a glint of desire to inflict physical harm. He knew. He glanced in Mycroft's direction, wondering if the man had known all along his brother was alive and if he'd been the one to tell what had happened to John at Moriarty's hands.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, staring down at Moriarty with great disdain. "If you clear my name it is for selfish reasons. Perhaps so you can play another one of your games with me. I won't play."

Moriarty gave nothing away, choosing to ignore the man holding him to the wall to observe Clara speaking softly to Harry, lips grazing the cheek. John had to hand it to the woman, she was adept at blocking out the drama unfolding in the room around her. He supposed there was the benefit that she didn't understand it and none of it mattered to her. In his case, all of it mattered very much to him and he wished it didn't.

"Ordinary people are adorable sometimes, aren't they? So raw and honest. So.. _sweetly_ innocent and naive."

Condescending tone, check. Directed toward the two women in the room, but not at John. Strange. John could tell Sherlock was wondering about his not being equated with the other "regular" people as well. Usually Moriarty took pleasure in reminding Sherlock that John was only a pet and nothing more. Still, he didn't like the way he was talking.

"You're a devil," he informed the devious man.

He grinned back at John, ready with a response. "And you're a doctor. Guess we can't always avoid the inevitable, Dr. Faust."

John stared. A clever allusion to a story he liked. Apparently Moriarty was familiar with the story, too. Two very different people with a similar taste in stories. He never thought he'd have something in common with Jim Moriarty. When he actually felt the beginnings of a smile start to form on his lips, he turned away, reminding himself of his sister's poor condition. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock was frowning between the two of them and Mycroft would bear a neutral expression as always.

The entire building shook. At least, the entirety of this side of the building had. Car alarms began to go off and Clara popped out of her seat to go peer out the window. Mycroft walked over as well, but paused when Moriarty's drawling voice followed the explosion.

"Whoops!" High-pitched and echoing falseness. "Looks like I left something in the parking lot. May be some injured folk down there wondering what oh what might have happened. Fun stuff, eh? Better go let someone see me so the vultures know who to write about. I did sign my name but the media can be awfully daft. I'll be seeing you, Sherlock. Your decision to sacrifice yourself for your friends means you're "pure". That gives you so many delightful weaknesses. Bye, John!"

He followed John's farewell with a wink and this time Sherlock had to restrain _him_ when he made to go after the bastard. He was in pieces and he'd never wanted to be. Not in front of emotionally repressed people like Mycroft and Sherlock. Not when his sister was lying as still as the grave she'd almost been put in with the percentage of alcohol detected in her system. Not when Sherlock was alive and well and still a target for Moriarty's stupid games that got people killed.

John wasn't certain when the restraining arms became an embrace, but eventually he noticed when things seemed to almost slow down for him. Clara was at the window, mortified expression telling how horrible the scene outside must be. Mycroft was on his phone barking orders, yet serenely. How did he manage that? Sherlock was lowering his head, speaking directly into John's ear.

"Home."

What? What was Sherlock saying? There were people running to and fro in the hallway. Shouts and screams could be heard, seemingly from every direction. It occurred to him that as a doctor he could lend a hand to the chaos reigning outside, but he was already moving for the exit. How was he moving to the exit? Oh, Sherlock was guiding him towards the quickest way out of the building. An emergency exit loomed ahead and he meant to scold him and tell him they shouldn't set off the alarm, but the words never made it out.

"Where are we going?" he asked, when he found himself being maneuvered into a cab. It didn't escape his notice, even through the shock he suddenly found himself in, that Sherlock was careful not to jostle or touch the worst of his bruises. He did know.

"Home. We're going home."


	6. A Practice in Normalcy-Subverted

Sherlock wouldn't let him be alone. By the time he finally overcame his shock of enduring the last several hours, he'd been bathed, old wounds cleaned, and was laid in his bed. The man barely bothered to take care of his own needs, so it was startling when he realized all Sherlock had done to make him comfortable. He wasn't finished either. When he thought he would finally be left to himself, he turned onto his side to sleep and felt the bed dip, arms curling around him from behind. His first instinct was to protest, but honestly, the heat at his back was nice, and instead he felt his eyes flutter closed. It wasn't long before he drifted into a deep and restful sleep.

When his eyes opened again, memories of his sister's poor condition, Moriarty's latest crime, and Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead came flooding back. He woke to find those familiar sharp blue eyes locked on his face. Somehow during the night, he'd turned over to his other side and was now facing the man with arms wrapped about him. Experience told him the man staring had not slept the previous night. He wondered why he remained with him in the bed. Didn't he have an investigation into Moriarty to begin? Wasn't this return to the living all about Moriarty still being alive?

He waited for the other man to say something, but when it appeared that wasn't going to happen, he started to draw away from the arms still wrapped around him. The hold tightened, not enough to hurt, only to be insistent he remain where he was. A sigh passed through his lips and he settled back into the bed, admittedly comfortable aside from the piercing eyes on him. So they were going to have this conversation now, apparently.

"You're alive."

Stating the obvious seemed the thing to do.

"Yes."

"Half a year, that's how long you made me believe you were dead."

"I will explain. I had no choice."

"Yeah I know. You had to jump off the roof, kill yourself, or three different hired guns would kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and..me."

Sherlock's eyes expanded, impressed he knew all the facts. "You know already. How?"

"How do you think? The bastard sure does love to talk. Especially when it's about himself."

The detective shifted on the bed at the mention of the man he was referring to, discomfort evident. It felt a bit satisfying to see him that way. Maybe he was sore about Moriarty's temporary victory over him, forcing him to leave his life and go into hiding. That wasn't John's problem though. Even after learning the truth about why Sherlock had killed himself, or well, pretended to kill himself, witnessing his friend jump continued to haunt him. But now, knowing it had all been pretend, he couldn't shake the question from his mind that he had to ask.

"Why did you make me watch?"

The question caught him off guard, John could tell. He was making Sherlock uncomfortable and uncertain, that he could tell, too. Good. His false suicide had made him feel guilty, lonely, and at this point, furious. He wouldn't let it show. As angry as he was that Sherlock pretended to be dead for so long, there was still a part of him that was happy to see him alive and well.

"What?"

"You-jump. Why did I have to see it? You had to of known what that'd do to me. Unless..unless you're really that emotionally dense."

The frown creasing Sherlock's forehead vanished, blue eyes seemingly fading into a gray color, a more distant and cold look replacing it. John recognized he'd hurt the man's feelings but he couldn't bring himself to care. He continued to stare into the eyes staring at his cheekbones now, waiting for a response.

"Moriarty promised me a fall, after the trial. I knew there was a chance I would not win against him and planned accordingly. I couldn't plan for everything of course. Your arrival, it was my timer. I had to kill myself before you reached me or you would all die. So I stopped you from coming closer..and...made certain I was convincing to anyone who may have been watching or listening." His eyes roved over his face, appearing to study John's reaction carefully. "They had to believe I was dead. Your believing it was the best way to convince them."

"Well good job. You fooled everybody except Moriarty."

John watched Sherlock's shifting gaze move to the sole bruise visible with his undershirt on. The other man's expression darkened, not because of him this time.

"I at least managed to fool him for a time, or you would not be here today. Do you still hurt?"

This time he did pull away from Sherlock's hold, opting to sit up in his bed. So he would try to avoid talking about his fall from the roof in favor of talking about John, wonderful. Sherlock mimicked his movements, albeit, much more reluctantly. Almost subconsciously, John drew his knees up to his chest, unaware it made him look small and vulnerable.

"I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I believed you killed yourself. Things change."

Sherlock was frowning again, probably trying to figure out what to make of John's words. Maybe he was thrilled at getting another puzzle to solve. He really didn't feel like thrilling Sherlock right now. He didn't want to be this close to him either. The near proximity made him want to hit him again. Not good.

"John..."

Apparently he couldn't put words together to get out any more than that, and John wasn't about to help him. The least he could do was notice he had put John and the rest of them through hell by pretending to be dead. The least he could do was act human enough to see he'd been cruel by staying dead for over six months and not letting anyone else in on his plan. Time away from John seemed not to have done him much good in the ways of understanding typical human emotions and socially appropriate norms.

"I'm fine. Moriarty did what he did because he's a bad man. I did what I did because I wanted revenge for your suicide. It was selfish, it was an evil concept, and I deserved everything done to me by that bad man."

"No! You did not deserve any of it!"

John flinched, and Sherlock flinched when he realized he'd shouted rather harshly at his friend.

"I won't discuss it. I'm going to get some breakfast. Hungry?"

"John..."

"I'll go put the tea on."

He walked out of the bedroom, figuring he'd be left alone. He was wrong. Funny, how he still hadn't managed to get used to being wrong. Sherlock was trailing behind him, keeping some space between them but ensuring he was near enough to be known. That set the tone for the entire day.

/

John had off from the hospital, Sherlock was laying low in the flat while the news about his return from the dead spread through the city like a wildfire, and he was always there. John sat in the living room watching the news about Sherlock Holmes and how evidence had recently come to light about the actual existence of criminal mastermind James Moriarty, including his direct involvement in the hospital parking lot bombing, and Sherlock sat alongside him. John went to the kitchen and would suddenly find Sherlock right behind him, watching. John went to the toilet, and disturbingly, Sherlock would be waiting just outside the door. John's phone rang at one point, and Sherlock gave him such a look that he decided it best to let the answering machine pick up. After a long, painstakingly slow day of this, the hour grew late and John headed for bed.

He had a call to make before going to sleep, but that didn't happen because Sherlock followed him into his bedroom. Getting ready for bed, he pretended he wasn't being observed the entire time. Inevitably, he finally snapped. Why should he have to pretend?

"What? What do you want?"

Sherlock's reply was simple. "Nothing."

"Okay... I'm going to sleep now. Good night then."

He climbed under the covers and shut off the bedside lamp, waiting to hear retreating footsteps before closing his eyes. He was very close to drifting off when the footsteps returned and then the bed was dipping. Arms wrapped around him and there was a familiar heat at his back. Well this was strange. There was a man sharing his bed, basically hugging him while he went to sleep, and he found he didn't mind it so much. He supposed it was something when the man's presence kept the nightmares of late at bay. The undercover job was getting to be a bit much, very risky. A constant reminder that Sherlock was truly alive and safe wasn't so bad.

Tonight he would let it go, but really, he was going to have to explain to Sherlock how it wasn't proper for two platonic friends to share a bed every night. It wasn't okay to follow your friend around the house everywhere and ridicule the few police who bothered to visit to apologize for doubting him either. At this moment though, his eyes were getting very heavy, and he was very comfortable, so he fell asleep content to have Sherlock with him.

///

The following day, about mid-morning, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. They had a case for him. He said no and hung up. Then sat to stare at John some more. Rolling his eyes, he told Sherlock to take the case. He only shook his head and spent the next hour staring up at the ceiling, contemplating aloud, how long it would take before the vultures stopped swarming outside their door to get an "exclusive" interview with the recently proven innocent and alive detective consultant.

In the next hour, Donovan and Anderson showed up at their doorstep. It was clear Anderson had been dragged along, but Donovan seemed surprisingly sincere in her apology to Sherlock about turning the police against him without any real evidence. Sherlock's response was to deduce they hadn't slept together for the better part of a month because of tension between Anderson and his wife, and then he shut the door in their gaping faces. To be fair, Sherlock might have been a tad provoked into being rude since his flatmate had just put his foot down and declared there were two separate bedrooms for a reason, and that the bathroom had a door for a reason.

"Space, Sherlock, I need my space to breathe."

Sherlock only huffed indignantly and went to stare out the window for a while. He didn't understand what was so upsetting. John was sick of being treated like he was made of glass by the newly revived detective consultant. He got that maybe Sherlock thought his presence would help since John had been very lonely after losing his best friend, but he was fine. He could stand being by himself sometimes, no big deal. It never occurred to him, that Sherlock was the one who didn't want to be alone.

///

For two days Sherlock remained grumpy. On the third day, he reluctantly accepted a case from Lestrade when the man showed up and practically begged for his help. John refused to come along. He was tired and cranky and just plain angry. Sherlock was acting like everything was all fine and it was not all fine. He waited up for Sherlock that night and when the man finally came striding through the doorway, he somehow found himself exploding his rage instead of keeping quiet like he'd planned. Somehow during the time it took for Sherlock to stride up the stairs, he had decided simply not telling Sherlock wouldn't work for long. He needed to push his incredibly intelligent flatmate away if he had any hope of keeping his personal undercover case private.

He mustered every acting fiber in his being to appear utterly indignant and angry as he forced his eyes to meet Sherlock's own widening ones.

"I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock! Pretend everything is fine when it clearly is not. You faking your death and staying dead for half a year... There has to be a line. There has to be. I'm done with you, Sherlock. My therapist was right. You're destructive. Death and grief surround you. In this world, you are one of the worst things in it."

He almost gave in at that moment. Saying his good friend was one of the worst things in the world was too horrible. He had to do it. He had to finish this off and convince Sherlock he meant every word, even if it really just made him want to throw up.

"Looks like Moriarty wins after all. I'm done with you, with the way you make me feel so worthless and miserable. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. London can keep you but God knows I won't."

Starting for his room, he decided he was going to move out. This would make working his other job much easier. No Sherlock around to be nosing about. His nightmares were getting worse, his fear of getting caught getting to him, and all the things he witnessed being done also terrible. If he accidentally spoke something damning in his sleep, he could be discovered by his friend. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be in danger because of something he had decided to do. It might also be easier to go because it was becoming rather tiresome to live with a Sherlock who thought things would magically go back to the way they once were. He acted as though nothing had changed when so much had. Did Sherlock really not care? Or was the temporary emotional displays followed by a relative return to normalcy an attempt at saying sorry for making John mourn for a dear friend he'd believed lost.

Sherlock didn't even let him get to his bedroom before he blocked the doorway.

"Don't leave. You're tired. Sleep. I'm late because Mrs. Hudson spotted me and wouldn't let me go till she hugged me to near numbness. Please, sleep. I know you're mad because I pretended to be dead and because you think I forget about you. I don't. John, sleep?"

His mission to keep Sherlock at arms length and storm out was temporarily forgotten as he stared hard into Sherlock's eyes. Was he being honest? The man was a pretty damn good actor himself. He could be saying what John wanted to hear in order to get him to stay. But then, why would he bother if he didn't care about John? He turned his gaze away from Sherlock, realizing the man could be trying to read him at the same time, and then merely gave a mute nod and a forced smile.

"Alright. It's fine. It's late. I'm going to bed. Do try to sleep some yourself, okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer, only watched as John gave up on him and retreated past to his bedroom, closing the door in his face without looking back.

///

Another week went by where the two of them barely said a word to each other, and then during the second week, Sherlock went off to work a case with Lestrade, while John decided he needed to pay a visit to a helpful friend of his during the past months. Tom, or Professor Kingston, had become an advisor and almost therapist of sorts for him. Initially he'd come to visit for a small bit of knowledge, and then he'd come again, and again. The man was astonishingly intelligent, had reminded him of Sherlock somewhat, and so any company with him had been welcome.

His visit with Professor Kingston in Cardiff ended up getting cut short when he got a call from Mary and headed off to meet her for lunch. He really liked Mary, and she liked him, too. She kept him grounded, made him happy and almost could manage to drag a genuine smile out of him. He hadn't been able to smile a real smile since he'd thought he'd lost Sherlock. Mary knew all about that and she was so understanding. John had met her by chance, recovering her pet dog when he noticed a pretty woman putting up missing pet signs one afternoon following a visit with the professor. He really liked Mary because she made him smile, even if it was fake. It still stopped him from walking around like the world was crushing down on his shoulders.

Lunch was nice. Seeing Mary always managed to cheer him up. Naturally, his happiness wasn't to last. On the cab ride back to Baker Street, he got a call from Lestrade asking him to come down to an embankment near the Thames. He went, and found Sherlock already there..with Moriarty.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

He addressed his question to Lestrade, despite the man speaking into his cell to another party. He was still trying to keep Sherlock at a distance, and he most definitely wasn't going to be talking to Moriarty if it wasn't required. His initial anger at seeing his flatmate with the criminal mastermind faded to the background of his mind when he noted while Moriarty was leaning in close with a grin, the other was leaning away, frowning. Sherlock must not have been the one to call him there and certainly didn't appear to want him around either.

When Sherlock saw him, he took a step back from the man in his personal space, and rounded on John.

"What have you been doing while I've been away, John? What's going on?"

"What? What are you on about?"

Lestrade hung up his phone. "All right, Donovan has managed to track down the man Moriarty directed us to." His eyes narrowed onto the mentioned man. "This had better be on the level."

The man shrugged and shifted his attention from Sherlock to John. "Johnny boy! So pleased to see you. How's the sister? Doing better I hear."

"Her life span's been shortened thanks to the maniac who did that to her, but other than that, yeah, she's just marvelous."

"Ah, well, probably better that way. I mean, really, how much is she actually doing for this world by staying alive?"

John would like to hit Moriarty. Instead, he breathed in through his mouth and exhaled slowly through his nose. He tried to figure out why the man was here. What could he possibly want? Did he already wish to resume his stupid intelligence measuring games with Sherlock?

He pointedly ignored the man seeking false idle chit chat with him, and turned to Sherlock. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Sherlock swallowed before answering. "There's been a hit put out, through the criminal network. Moriarty showed up at the flat having traced it to the origins. What have you been doing, John?"

"Nothing."

"John."

"Nothing, Sherlock! I took a few cold cases from Lestrade after I thought you'd died. That's it."

"It's true, Sherlock. But he hasn't taken a case for some time, none of them likely to result in someone actually wanting him dead. This doesn't make sense."

Moriarty sauntered around John for a moment, then meandered his way back over to the consulting detective. "See, Sherlock, I can do for him what you can't. Interesting."

"Oh shut it. You're only here because the concept of anyone else wanting John dead intrigues your insane mind."

"Oh?"

"You want to know why."

"So do you!" Moriarty sang.

"Oi! What's keeping you? Let's go!"

Donovan had arrived, standing between two brick buildings a fair distance from where their little group was standing around. John felt Sherlock's lingering gaze on him before the consultant turned and jogged after Donovan, who had disappeared back into the alleyway.

/

Sherlock wanted to know what was going on with his friend and he was determined to deduce precisely what was being kept from him. John was lying. He'd been lying with so many things and John never had done that before he'd gone away for half a year. A lying John disturbed him so he settled on finding the man behind the hit. He'd get some answers out of him.

He found the lieutenant had the man they were seeking cornered. He was gruff in appearance, eyes rimmed red, hands shaking. A hallucination was the cause of his behavior, no doubt. He was trembling, yet his eyes were miles away half the time. Donovan towering over him the way she was likely caused him to see some sort of monster in her place.

"Useless," he muttered.

"What's useless?"

Lestrade had finally caught up, Moriarty strolling casual-like, just behind. Sherlock ignored them both and crouched down in front of the high man who held the information he required. He slapped the man across the face, twice, then tried to talk to him.

"Focus. What's your name? Why did you put out a contract on a man's life?"

No response except for unintelligible muttering. That would not do.

"Your name? How do you know John Watson?"

The eyes suddenly focused for a second, staring directly at the wall behind Sherlock. His muttering ceased, he breathed in deep, and then spoke much more clearly.

"Watson. John Watson. I'm sorry, John. You're going to have to run now. They made me. You're going to have to run now, John. Ruuuun!"

The man slumped over and started whimpering to himself. Donovan kicked him once and then stepped away.

"He won't be any help."

"I got rid of the hit." Moriarty shared. "So don't worry your pretty little head over it, Sherlock. Of course, if they very much need him dead, there's always that whole doing it yourself to get things done saying..."

Sherlock was occupied, his mind racing with thoughts. John was acting strange. He had been acting distinctly not like John since Sherlock returned from his boring life, hiding away so the world thought him dead. Was John lying when he said he didn't know why there'd be a hit out on him? He didn't think so. John wasn't the greatest at pretending, especially to him, and he'd appeared genuinely confused and surprised about anyone placing a hit out on his life. Cold cases. Lestrade had given John cold cases to work on. He'd have to get a look at those if he was to properly deduce whether or not any of them could be the reason John was required to stop breathing.

What if there was nothing there though? Then it would have to be something else. Why would anyone want John dead? It didn't make sense. And why was Moriarty here supposedly helping? What did he care? Why pretend to care? It gained him nothing. What was he missing?

"Ah, damn it. You've gone and got lost in your own head again."

He broke himself from his thoughts upon hearing Lestrade's words, shaking his head once and then glancing the man's way.

Lestrade stared back at him, looking exasperated. "Where's John?"

Sherlock turned around to seek out John, who usually stood just behind him and off to the side to allow him to work, observing all the while. He wasn't there. John was always there. A frown creased his forehead and then he was running, back the way he'd come, towards the river.

"Sherlock!"

He heard Lestrade calling out behind him, followed by Donovan's cursing, and he blocked it all out. His focus was entirely on one thing. John, John, John.

The river came into view, he spotted John, and he breathed with relief. John was fine. He was pacing along the edge of the river in a frustrated manner. He'd opted not to follow after them and was instead mulling over why there was someone trying to kill him. Sherlock deduced this with a single scan.

Moriarty was brushing himself up against his right elbow and shoulder with a slight smirk.

"Sherly, trouble in paradise? Your faithful lapdog not so willing to follow after you anymore? Maybe you shouldn't have pretended to be dead. A big lie like that can change partners forever."

"I get it. You want me dead."

"Mmm, not any more. I still do so love to see you dance."

He lowered his eyes to Moriarty with disgust. "You faked your death, too, so I don't know where this holier than thou crap is coming from."

"The rules didn't say _I_ couldn't."

"And the rules merely said I had to jump. I jumped. Time to move on."

"How did you do it?"

Sherlock knew he was asking how he'd faked his death. His insatiable curiosity was frankly rather annoying. Didn't he have better things to do than irritate him? A brief glint of metal in the sunlight caught his eye. Vaguely he heard Donovan and Lestrade catching up, dragging a handcuffed and still very high man between them. His gaze moved towards the metallic shine and he took in the man standing a good distance away on his left, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, gun in hand. The gun was lifting to point at John.

"John!"

His warning shout was in vain. It grabbed John's attention immediately, but it only gave his friend time to see the terror in his eyes, and then he was shot. The bullet hit him in the stomach and caused him to gape when he traced his eyes to the shooter. That was when the second bullet blew through his stomach, just slightly higher and to the left of the first one. Sherlock watched John lowering his gaze to the two bleeding holes in his stomach and knew he was going into shock. For a moment, John's head leveled and their eyes met, it was broken when Sherlock observed the blood leaking from his lips and his friend fell backwards into the river.

"John!" he screamed.

He ran for where his friend had slipped into the water, shouting for Lestrade and Donovan to go after the shooter and to call for medical help. Then he was throwing off his heavy coat and diving into the water. It took him thirty seconds to locate his friend, motionless and sinking, and another thirty to bring them both up from beneath the surface. Shifting John's weight in his arms, he managed to swim to the edge and was surprised when a second pair of hands took hold of John's shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way out. Moriarty. He'd forgotten about him.

Sherlock followed John out of the cold water and together, he and Moriarty positioned the limp man onto his back. Straightening his head and slightly tilting it backwards, he began chest compressions, periodically breathing into his mouth. After the third round of chest compressions, John began to cough up water mixed with blood. His eyes fluttered and then opened into slits that focused on Sherlock, who leaned in close.

"John. John hang in there."

John's eyes started to close and not knowing what else to do, Sherlock slapped him. The eyes startled open again, a little gasp escaping his mouth. He couldn't die on him. Not John. He began to ramble, wondering how long the damn bus was going to take.

"He's dying. He's dying and I can't stop it. What can I do? What do I do? I need you to tell me what to do, John."

"Two gunshot wounds to the upper and lower left quadrants of the stomach. I'm dying, Sherlock. It's okay... Not your fault. It's okay..."

"Sherlock."

Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes from John's face to look at Moriarty.

"He's a doctor. He will know what to do to best prolong his life. Do it."

His eyes returned to John's face, even as Moriarty lowered his lips to just beside John's right ear.

"Don't listen to what your body is telling you. Listen to _me_."

Surprisingly, John responded to him, face slightly inclining towards the man speaking. Sherlock took over from there. He tore open the bloody and soaked shirt, exposing the pair of identical holes in his belly. It was bad. There was so much blood.

"John, you need to tell me what to do. What would you do if you had a patient like this?"

"Pressure. Slow the bleeding. Need to keep..patient awake and responsive, or it's already too late."

Sherlock did as he said, ripping the scarf from around his neck to place against the bleeding wounds. A hand fixed around his elbow.

"Pressure, Sherlock."

He knew what that would mean on a physical level for John. "Are you sure?"

A curt nod was the only response he received. He applied pressure to the cloth placed over the wounds and a sharp intake of breath followed by a groan of pain emerged from John. Sherlock felt something tighten in his own chest.

"Staying awake, Johnny. That's what we're doing." Moriarty was saying.

A black car pulled up. "That's our ride."

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking at him in confusion.

"To hospital. Now. Your police friends are taking far too long. Shall we?"

He didn't hesitate. If John stayed here he was as good as dead. "John, I'm picking you up now. This will hurt but you have to stay with me, okay?"

Lifting him up, he cradled his friend in his arms and followed Moriarty to the car. As the blood seeped from the wounds, he could feel the life seeping out of the body along with it. There wasn't much time and he couldn't let John die. It had been a hard decision to leave John alone when he'd pretended to be dead and they'd been apart for too long, that much he could tell. Now John was leaving him and he couldn't let that happen. Not after they'd finally found each other again. He tightened his hold on John.

///

John woke to the beeping of machines and a man beside his bed he had not expected. James Moriarty was reclined as comfortably as one could be in the hard chair that resided beside the hospital bed in the darkened room. His fingers were tapping out a beat on the armrest and he realized there were earpieces in his ears and he was listening to his ipod. That stopped when he became aware John was awake. It was probably a break in his rhythmic breathing while he was asleep or some other minor detail.

He casually put the ipod away and contemplated John's expression, fingers tapping along the side of the bed. His fingers began to trace over the small, ragged scar on John's arm, the one mark left behind from his time in Moriarty's..care. Finally, he seemed to decide what he was going to say or that he was going to say them.

"Three days. That's how long it took before the elder Holmes forced junior Holmes away from your bedside to do that pesky sustenance business. I don't know why he loathes eating so much. A good indulgence now and again is fairly pleasurable. Ah well, it's why I didn't come to see you earlier. Though it appears," Moriarty was flipping through his medical chart. "You haven't regained consciousness until this very moment. Oooh lucky me."

"Thank..." He paused when his voice came out raspy and dry.

Moriarty responded by standing and moving over to a table with cups and a water pitcher. He poured him some water and returned to the bed, pressing a button that shifted the bed into a position which allowed John to be sitting slightly upright, before handing it to him. John found he was able to move with relative ease, though he was stiff, sore, and very much aware of the recent holes in his stomach. This was good, no permanent damage or paralysis.

"Thank you. I mean, for helping save me. I..I owe you my life."

He wondered if he should have said that much when the other man leaned in, silk tie from his expensive suit rubbing against his neck he was so close, to speak low in his ear.

"I'll remember that Johnny."

Was the man incapable of saying anything without being entirely creepy? Oh it got worse, too, and John had to restrain himself from hitting the button to call for the nurse. He could handle Moriarty, even if the man terrified him, he could.

"I decide when you're going to die, Johnny boy. You're still breathing because this wasn't on my terms. I own your life. Remember that."

John cleared his throat and forced himself to remain calm, at least on the outside. "Right, yes, well that was suitably disturbing."

Moriarty laughed and he shrank back a little. He drank the second cup of water handed to him and then he decided he very much wasn't ready to be conscious and alert quite yet. His head came to rest against the pillow and his eyes grew tired and heavy nearly as fast.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes were closed now but Moriarty's voice drifted down to him. "Oh he'll be around again in exactly three minutes so I'd best be going. You know how possessive he can get over his things."

"Not his."

"Correct. You're mine."

Deeply unsettling, but his mind barely grasped the concept before slipping into the darkness of a restful sleep.


	7. A Different John

Routine. It was something they had managed to establish since John returned home from the hospital. Four months later and he was fully recovered, minimal scarring resulting from his near death experience. He'd been taken care of by the best surgeons and medical doctors available to man, thanks to Mycroft, and he hadn't had to be roughly patched up in the desert with limited available resources like the first time he'd gotten shot.

John continued to make tea, coaxed Sherlock into once more adopting healthier eating habits, and watching crap telly together. The violin playing was something he was immensely glad to have filling the flat, even if at times it came at ungodly hours of the night. He'd never thought he'd hear another one of Sherlock's musical pieces ever again. His blog, that was something he didn't feel up to continuing. He didn't care to put forth the effort when he felt so useless for his friend, who hadn't bothered to confide in him his plan on that rooftop.

Sherlock continued to work on cases, John assisting him from at home up until he was well enough to go to the crime scenes with his partner. This time also set John back on his undercover work, and his handler was unhappy, essentially leaving him to the job himself until he could actually produce some tangible results. Not the most ideal situation in an already extremely dangerous situation, but he'd deal. He always dealt with what he had to.

Days passed relatively peacefully. There was no sign of Moriarty since he'd all but threatened John while in the hospital, and the tension between him and Sherlock had at least lessened. Things weren't the way they were before, of course, because he couldn't get it out of his head that Sherlock had lied to him. His best friend had kept him from knowing he was planning to fake his suicide, hadn't trusted him to know and help him out. He'd told Sherlock it was okay, said the words out loud that he'd forgiven Sherlock for jumping and pretending to be dead. But they both knew it wasn't true. After all, when Sherlock jumped off St. Bart's roof, he'd killed two people that day.

A tad overdramatic? Perhaps. It was how he felt though. There was just no trust for Sherlock any more. How could there be trust when his flatmate couldn't even think him intelligent enough to ask for his help when he'd been threatened? It was why he kept his current mission for the NSA, to himself. It was his own work that he'd been doing quite successfully for months, and Sherlock would likely only insult him and then try to solve things. This was his thing now, not Sherlock's, and life was fine that way, just fine.

///

Here they were, a fresh crime scene, everything as it usually was. Lestrade was there, Donovan, and unfortunately Anderson, too. Okay, all wasn't as it usually was. A certain criminal mastermind was present. He'd shown up after four straight months without anyone hearing a peep from him or any crime that could have possibly been connected to him, right inside the station. He had waltzed up to the desk and asked for D.I. Lestrade, who found him waiting with a grin on his face and a request to attend the crime scene he'd asked Sherlock Holmes to consult on mere minutes earlier. Aside from that minor detail, things were fairly normal.

Gathered around the body, Sherlock was busy doing his thing. John watched it all, enjoying the detective consultant once again being absolutely brilliant. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood towards the wall by the door, eyes continually flickering from Sherlock examining the crime scene, and one James Moriarty, the consulting criminal who had insisted on accompanying them to the crime scene. Anderson stood just outside the door with a couple of other forensic specialists, looking a little less annoyed than usual. It probably had something to do with a very bad man standing in his crime scene.

Moriarty was not someone to mess with and once the entire police force had realized they'd been duped by the mega criminal in a big way, most of them had become weary, worried, and generally unhappy. The man was a criminal of the worst kind, his work planning crimes for other would-be criminals added to the danger. The absolute worst thing, though, was that they couldn't prove any of it. All of London knew of Moriarty's existence and his guilt, but there was no evidence. Were there to be evidence, it was likely no one would risk touching him for fear of reprisal from his large network of criminals.

It did not escape John's notice, when Moriarty moved closer to the body, and in effect, John, Sherlock positioned himself between them. He did do his best to ignore what that could mean, focusing his attention on the case at hand.

The detective glanced in the criminal's direction once, then moved into a crouch beside the deceased man in his thirties. His eyes scanned the body expertly and John watched him work, almost prideful of his associate.

"Taking a bit long to come to conclusions, aren't you?"

Everyone ignored the criminal. He wasn't supposed to be there anyway. Another minute ticked by. The same voice spoke up.

"You're slipping. Should have taken that fall for real, Sherlock. Then you wouldn't have to endure living long enough to become more idiotic, like the people you choose to spend your time solving crimes for."

He was eyeing the police, almost viciously. A look that John could read as willing to do anything to them, whether they labeled themselves law enforcement or not. He found himself wondering if the criminal would really be willing to make a move against the police with a room full of witnesses, and believe he could get away with it. It was sickening to consider such a man as Moriarty actually could get away with such an act. Especially if he used his snipers which were undoubtedly outside the building somewhere and claimed they weren't his. No proof, that was ever the problem.

Sherlock's eyes had never stopped roving over the body and then the room itself as he straightened to stand. He probably didn't even hear Moriarty's taunting as he was looking rather pleased with himself.

"Suicide."

"What? Are you sure?" Lestrade questioned.

Anderson seemed even more put off than the detective inspector. "Not possible. This is _my_ crime scene, Holmes, and it's clearly homicide."

"Don't talk, Anderson. I can feel the brain cells dying in my mind while being subjected to hearing your voice's particularly obnoxious frequency."

Moriarty chortled, Lestrade hummed, and Donovan busied herself glaring between Sherlock and Moriarty. It was entirely possible she was contemplating whether there was some kind of diabolical partnership occurring between the pair of them. Absolutely ridiculous, but absolutely plausible for someone as convinced of Sherlock's eventual decline into darkness as she always had been. John blocked it all out to hear the deduction. He never got tired of listening to Sherlock solve a case with his deductions.

"The first knife wound inflicted was shallow and in the upper chest, non-lethal. He hesitated. The second wound is an inch lower, hardly any deeper, but it drew enough blood to stagger him, observable by the spray on the floor here." After motioning to the matching spray, he went on. "He stood in this exact spot for precisely ten seconds, gaining the will he needed to continue. Now that the proper motion of his body against the wall to achieve the desired result had been deduced, he threw himself against the wall twice more, inflicting the third and fourth knife wounds here and here."

Lestrade followed Sherlock's motioning as the man reassumed his crouch by the body shortly before springing up and striding over to the wall he'd apparently been referencing throughout. He pressed himself up close to the wall and searched with his sharp gaze and adept fingers until he found what he sought. He pointed and stepped to the side to allow Lestrade to come close to see.

"Here. He stuck the knife handle into the widened seam here, and thrust himself against it until he'd done enough damage to successfully bleed out. Then he shoved the knife all the way through the crack with his hand, to conceal the weapon."

John crouched down by the man's corpse and took hold of the man's arm after applying gloves to his hands first. He lifted the right hand, palm up, to expose the cut from shoving the knife further into the wall by the blade's end. He smiled, a slightly forced, but genuine smile.

"Amazing."

Moriarty made a disagreeing noise, but he pretended not to hear.

"Well I don't understand. Why kill himself in such a painful manner? There are far easier methods to end one's life," reasoned Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled broadly. "Well of course there are. But he wasn't betting on my presence at his crime scene and you called me here for a reason."

"Yes. No evidence of an intruder, no evidence of anyone else present in this apartment in even the last few weeks possibly. It was unusual."

"And you were right to call me here. Otherwise you'd have Anderson's foolish conclusion that this was homicide."

Anderson opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock went right on going. "It's suicide. Quite obvious really. The man stabbed himself repeatedly with the knife and then hid it away in order to make you people _think_ it was homicide."

"Which..it's not..." Lestrade carefully concluded, Sherlock swiveling around to give him a look until he appeared more confident about said conclusion. "But why, Sherlock? Why would he want that?"

"Check the life insurance policy. I guarantee he has a wife, or more likely a child, who is set to inherit a large sum of money should he die. He wanted to kill himself, but he wanted his offspring to benefit from his death. Pointless now. Suicide nullifies the policy, the child will get nothing."

"He killed himself in a horribly painful manner, to try and do something for his kid. It's sad," commented John, shaking his head at such a loss. "Maybe if he'd spent a little more time with his kid, he wouldn't have fallen back on such a misguided idea, leaving the child without a father."

"Hm..yes, quite sad indeed. Perhaps he should have given ol' Jim a little ring. I would have helped him do it good and proper."

Sherlock glared over his shoulder at Moriarty, eyes searching for any sign that he had in fact had something to do with this. It did sound a lot like a crime scene that would pop up, should someone ask the consulting criminal for his help with insurance fraud.

John was the single one of the bunch to not give a reaction to Moriarty's remarks since he was doing his level best to ignore the hated man.

"Sir, I tried to stop them." Donovan breathed, coming into the sitting room just behind a man in a long brown coat and two uniformed PCs.

"Inspector Dimmock, what are you doing at my crime scene?"

The detective scanned the room, until his eyes landed on one of them and stayed there.

"Step away from that body, Dr. Watson."

John looked up at Dimmock uncertainly. "What?"

The man gave him a look and then narrowed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and approached him.

"John Watson, you are under arrest for the murder of Martin Lanscade and his daughter Sophie Lanscade. You are also a suspect in at least a dozen other missing person cases, really, suspected murder cases."

"Have you lost your mind?" Lestrade demanded, looking positively offended at the accusations the other was making.

Meanwhile, Dimmock had turned John around and put him against the wall, pulling his arms behind him in order to apply the handcuffs.

"You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Handcuffs applied, a general body search given, Dimmock turned him round again in order to look him in the eyes for what he had to say next.

"I'll personally see you hanged for what you've done."

Sherlock appeared beside his friend and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from the rather unfriendly investigator.

"I won't let you say such things. Where's your proof to such a ridiculous accusation?"

"We have all the evidence we need. You care, then you can follow us to the station, but I'm taking Dr. Watson, now."

Reluctantly, Sherlock loosened his hold and John's jacket sleeve slipped out from his fingers. Inspector Lestrade escorted him out of the room and the room was left in confusion, body all but forgotten. None of them had done anything to prevent John from being arrested and walked out, because the accused man himself hadn't behaved how they'd expected. He'd seemed surprised at police showing up to arrest him, but didn't seem surprised at all about the accusations of murder made against him. Why wouldn't John Watson be shocked and appalled when accused of being a serial murderer?

///

Down at the station a rather sizable crowd of people had gathered, acquaintances of John Watson. Inspector Lestrade had to tell them to sod off before he lost it, and he was already so close. The people who knew Dr. Watson were confused and uncomfortable with their confusion. Anderson and Donovan were close on the heels of their boss, who was close on the heels of Sherlock Holmes, who was practically breathing down Dimmock's neck as he led his suspected killer to the nearest interrogation room. His suspect had refused an attorney or a defense of any kind. Instead, after saying he wanted no legal counsel and signing the appropriate forms, he'd sealed his lips tight and adopted an expressionless mask. Before entering the interrogation room, Dimmock removed the handcuffs now that they were in the center of the police headquarters of London, and gestured for John to go in, before spinning around to place a hand on Sherlock's chest.

"Oh no, I don't want you anywhere near my suspect."

"Suspect? It's John!"

Dimmock just solidified his stance and waited. Giving his close friend one final glance, he looked to Lestrade, almost desperately. The older man slowly released breath he hadn't realized he was holding in, and gave the consulting detective a rope to hold on to.

"There's a viewing room on the other side of this wall. We can see and hear all of the interview there. Come on Sherlock, yeah?"

Sherlock's fists tightened, but he looked at John and they released. "Fine."

He didn't sound fine but he followed Lestrade and Anderson into the viewing room, while Sergeant Donovan managed an invite into the interrogation room at Lestrade's insistence. Moriarty trailed in after Sherlock, disturbingly quiet-like, as if he was aiming to be present, yet forgotten. So far, it seemed to be working.

/

"Sixteen. That's where I have your body count so far. Accurate? Or are there more we don't know about?"

John sat stiff and silent, staring blankly ahead of himself, avoiding eye contact with the two occupying the sparse room with him.

"What I want to know, is what went wrong this last time? How come you left the bodies when all those other times, you've been almost perfect at cleaning up the scene of the crime and removing any trace of the body?"

Silence. DI Dimmock didn't appear to mind. He began laying out crime scene photographs and files, victims' files. A list was read off to John, of all the people gone missing in the last year, their last known locations completely wiped clean of anything possibly construed as evidence. Last to be set out, were photos of the two murdered most recently, a month ago to be precise. These crime scenes had the bodies. The father dead on a second floor landing with a bullet straight through the front of his forehead. The other, a young teenage girl, was lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the flight of stairs, two bullets in her chest. John glanced over the files and folders when Dimmock insisted he do so, then went back to staring at a spot just over the detective's shoulder.

Dimmock slammed his hand down on the table beside where John sat. "Do you really care so little about the lives you took? That little girl was only fourteen years old! Is it you find no point in denying what you know to be true? We found fingerprints and blood DNA at the scene where father and daughter were callously murdered. There really is no point bothering to deny it. We have everything we need to lock you up for a long time."

"Tell me, do you have any usable evidence connecting those two murders to all the rest?"

Donovan started from where she'd been leaning against the far wall, and the detective inspector looked surprised and then pleased at his progress. He lowered himself into the chair across from John, finally managing to get the man to look him in the eyes.

"We'll find it, and even if we don't, that double-homicide where you left copious traces of yourself behind will be enough to lock you up for life. Hell, it's probably more than enough to get you hanged."

John shrugged and leaned back in his chair, now the picture of calm and unaffected. The man across from him took this as an invitation to lean towards his suspect.

"All this time, pretending you were a person who cared. They often say the real psychopaths are the quiet, unassuming folk. You fit the bill there, Dr. Watson."

"This isn't right. John is stable, far from a psychopath. This can't be." Donovan piped up, frowning.

The central accuser glared her way and then returned his attentions to his prime interest, who he found to be almost smirking slightly.

"What? I fail to see the humor in your situation."

Nothing from John, which angered Dimmock this time. He stood suddenly, this time slamming both palms down on the surface of the table.

"People are dead! We have two bodies, fourteen others we're pretty sure you've killed and made disappear, and you sit there smiling?! Find something amusing about people dying?"

John really did look amused, and from behind the one-way mirror, Lestrade lit up a cigarette. Serious as the situation was, Sherlock managed to send an irritated glance the other man's way.

"What are you doing? You don't smoke..any more."

Lestrade didn't even bother looking at him, just took a long drag. "The day John Watson becomes a serial killer, is a good enough day for me to fuck-all with my habit. Leave me be."

He let him be, all right, when John's response to Dimmock's irritation was utterly cold-blooded.

"People die every day."

Sherlock peered over at the shorter man standing a little ways to his right, observing the interview along with the rest of them. Moriarty had once screamed at him that dying was what people did. John's words echoed the criminal mastermind's own far too closely. Was it a message? Or just evidence of how much he'd never seen in his friend? It was impossible. He saw nearly everything there was to see. He knew his only friend, his good friend, well. John as an unremorseful killer was inconceivable, impossible.

"There were more after her," John suddenly supplied, smiling that foreign smile of his. One that bade promises of truly wicked things in the future. A very un-John Watson smile. "There will be more again. You can't stop me. You'll only end up dead too."

"I have stopped you. Your days of freedom have ended."

John actually laughed. He laughed out loud and Sherlock began to cry. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks and he so rarely cried. He didn't understand what was going on one bit. He usually understood everything that went on, to a point he didn't even like on some occasions. Why was John acting this way? He wasn't a murderer. He wasn't. He couldn't be. He was John.

Embarrassingly, the tears tracking down his cheeks had not gone unnoticed. Moriarty was practically grinning at him in his enjoyment of seeing such pain, while Lestrade was speaking to him. He noticed that second part in the next instant. He wanted him to leave, to go home. That was nonsense. John was his home and he was right here. He wasn't going anywhere. Actually, he was, but not where the inspector wanted him.

He pushed past Lestrade and made his entrance into the interview room to find John had resumed his silence and Dimmock was red-faced angry. So much for controlling one's emotions and personal thoughts during an interrogation of a suspect. When Sherlock walked in, John looked up and met his eyes by accident, zeroing in on the tears untouched on his face. Immediately he averted his gaze but it was enough for Sherlock. He'd seen the walls go up. John was keeping him out.

"Hey! This is my interview. You can't be in here!"

"Oh let him be."

It was Donovan who'd spoken in his defense and he gave her a silent thank you with his eyes, before coming to stand beside where Dimmock sat across from John. He was going to get what Dimmock needed, while getting what he needed at the same time. Answers to what they both believed were the right questions.

"Why do any of this? Surely you have employers. It's clear you were hired for each of those jobs since the men and women that went missing all held government jobs."

John cocked his head and glanced up at Sherlock, though he was avoiding looking directly at him, the consultant observed.

"I specialize in making people disappear. Apparently they've decided they need a fall guy. Probably for my..slip up."

"The girl. She wasn't supposed to be a casualty, was she?"

"Wrong place, wrong time. So I took her out, then took off. Left a mess behind."

Sherlock made sure he did not flinch or give anything away, no matter how shocked he was at the cold, unfeeling manner in which John was supplying his answers. He had to get to the bottom of this.

"Why run?"

"She surprised me. Caught me off guard. That never happened before."

"Yes, but why not clean it up? Make her disappear too?"

"You think it was a sign I cared? Some kid gets shot once and someone like me loses it? No. I left no trace of myself at that crime scene. Like I said, my employers have apparently decided they'd like me to take the blame. I ran because killing the girl was not my orders. Self-preservation and all that."

"She was shot twice."

For the first time, John, himself, faltered. "What?"

"You said some kid was shot once, but the girl was killed by sustaining two bullet wounds to the chest. The first from some distance and the second at close range. Shouldn't the one who killed her know a major detail like that?"

John waved it off. "Slip of the tongue. How long are we gonna do this? I'd like to have some time alone before..well."

The abrupt end caused Sherlock pause. "Well what?"

"I told you, I specialized in making people disappear. They've decided I'm expendable. Now, they'll make me disappear."

He said it like he didn't even care. Dimmock threw up his hands in annoyance and shouted over his shoulder that he was going to get coffee and would be right back. A momentary pause, and then Donovan was following him out, unsure of what she could even do for John. Sherlock didn't leave though. He wasn't finished. Planting himself in the seat recently vacated by the detective inspector, he stared John down. He counted the time passing until he reached seven minutes. Then a flash of something new appeared in John's eyes and he glanced up and to the right, before meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time.

"We're not ourselves."

The words were spoken so quietly, he found himself instinctively leaning closer. "What did you say?"

"We're not who we are."


	8. The Requirement of Genius

"We're not who we are."

He repeated the exact same phrase one last time, and then refused to speak again, returning his downcast gaze to the tabletop. At least he wasn't smiling or laughing about the dead. Sherlock stood slowly and walked out of the interview room. Closing the door behind him, he glanced up to find Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and Moriarty joining him.

"When you eliminate what's impossible. What remains must be the truth, no matter how mad. John is the murderer," he murmured, and knew he would say nothing more.

"Killer Johnny. Fascinating! Didn't imagine he had it in him to be cold-blooded. No, I never imagined he could be so much fun!"

Great, Moriarty was doing his whole speaking high-pitchy and childish thing again. Sherlock did not ever want to reveal weakness in front of his arch enemy of all people, nor police like Anderson and Donovan who loathed him, but it was _John_. He stepped backwards until his back hit the wall and slid down it, sinking to a crouched position, head lowered to stare at the floor.

///

The following day, John vanished from his holding cell. Lestrade arrived at Sherlock's flat to find the man wide awake, staring into space, seated upright in his chair. Together they traveled to the station in silence, the only words ever spoken were the words that had brought the consultant with him: John's gone. They should have been more surprised upon their arrival, to find Moriarty waiting for them. Perhaps it was because neither one had gotten any sleep the previous night, that tempered their attitude at seeing him. He followed them into the station and they let him without a fuss. What was happening right now was too difficult as it were.

Anderson and his forensics team were pouring over the cell John had disappeared from, searching for how he could have possibly escaped. The three of them found Donovan observing the ongoing forensic search, looking awfully sleep-deprived herself. Sherlock supposed it should be noted, Moriarty appeared well-rested as ever. When he stepped into the holding cell that had been John's, both Donovan and Anderson glanced his way almost simultaneously, wearing identical expressions. Hopeful, desperate. They were looking to him for answers and he had none to give. The expression that reflected back at them was a dazed one, nothing more.

Usually so observant, he never even realized Lestrade had gone, until he had returned, another man beside him. This was a man Sherlock had never met. He stared at this new person with dull eyes. Sensing Sherlock was utterly useless for the moment, Moriarty was more than happy to step into his place.

Stepping forward, he introduced himself with a slight smile. "Jim Moriarty. And you are..?"

The man had been eyeing Sherlock but he rounded on Jim in the next moment. He rounded, quite literally, moving in a small circle around the criminal mastermind as he examined him up and down. Not one for boundaries apparently. Though, Jim supposed, he didn't care much for other people's boundaries or privacy either.

"Hm..High maintenance, like to keep clean, often passive-aggressive. Intelligent but you know it, so cocky too. Your stance says you think yourself untouchable, your eyes say mental instability. I'd say psychopath with undertones of sociopathy and sadism. You like to hurt people who have something to lose, usually in the form of games, and you always have to win. I'd say a sort of anti-social personality disorder. Probably stems from never being loved as a child."

The man came to stand in front of Moriarty, peering into his face with his head tilted to the side. "The thing I can say for sure, you have a major narcissistic personality disorder."

He took a step back. "Hi, I'm Dr. L. Calman, detective inspector. I am also extremely skilled at reading people." His attention diverted over to Sherlock. "Detective Lestrade asked me to take a look at your friend. I've reviewed the tapes and there are some things I'd like you to see."

Without waiting to see if he was followed, the man in the suit and tie walked down the hall a ways, and into a room. A surveillance room full of screens and a control board. All of the monitors were showing the interview of John with Dimmock, Donovan, and Sherlock present. He'd been followed by everyone. Lestrade, Moriarty, Sherlock, even Donovan and Anderson had come. They wanted to see what this man had to say. If they could learn something new, they were fully open to it.

Dr. Calman sat down in one of the chairs, reclining comfortably, while the rest remained standing. He leaned forward a bit and tapped a few keys, freezing the video recording at a certain point where John is smirking that horrid smirk that still haunted Sherlock's waking thoughts. Then he turned to eye his audience.

"Dr. John Watson. Know you don't want to hear it, seeing as he's your friend, but guilt is what I read in him throughout much of this interview."

Donovan made a noise as she inhaled sharply, Lestrade lit up a cigarette, still illegal in public buildings, but no one said anything. Everyone was listening to the detective. He took a breath of his own, then pointed to the image he'd put up and paused on.

"Now here's where it gets really interesting. There are seven points on this recording where your suspect shows the same emotion. For example," he explained, pointing to the largest of the dozen or so screens. "Here his mouth is smirking, but his eyes, show fear. The smirk is false. His eyes reveal the lie."

Sherlock was at full attention now, the dazed look dissipating slightly. Dr. Calman was messing around with the control panel again, moving forward through the tape.

"This is the biggest tell I observed."

The image he'd frozen on was when Sherlock and John had been seated across from one another, in silence. Seven minutes of silence. The detective had frozen it right where John had looked away from Sherlock before turning back to him and speaking words the consultant had not understood. John was staring directly into the camera and he was showing the same look in his eyes.

"See. Again, fear in the eyes. Your boy takes a look at the camera, very much afraid, and I think _of_ it."

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade questioned.

"I think he's very much afraid of the camera itself, being surveilled. He looks at it, before saying anything to this one. Frankly, I think he's trying to tell you something."

Sherlock stared. He didn't understand. He'd no idea what John had meant by his whole, "We're not who we are." Air. Had to get some air or at least out of this damned room. He stepped out and away from all those stares. Everybody always wanting him to be a genius, supplying the answers they needed. Well this time he didn't know!

"Sherrrrlooock."

His name was said in a high-pitched sing-song.

"What?" he snarled out at a man he really wished would stay away from him.

"That was always the thing about you, Sherlock. You forget details when under pressure, miss key points when you either concentrate too hard or things get a little too personal."

"What are you saying? Just-get to the point."

Moriarty shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. "Johnny boy, was talking to you, not me."

Sherlock frowned, and immediately went back into the room he'd vacated a minute ago. Looking pleased and somewhat amused, Moriarty followed after him. Upon his reentry, everyone looked to him, and Dr. Calman stood from his chair, stepping aside to give access to the detective consultant.

"Ideas, Mr. Holmes? I hear you're very good."

Not saying a word, he stepped before the controls and his eyes moved rapidly as he went through the interview tape from the start, to the first time his heart had nearly stopped. When John had spoken the words that had led his mind straight to the evil man standing in the doorway. He paused and then played the tape.

_"People die every day."_

He stopped there, and turned to Moriarty. "No, see, he was talking to you there, Jim."

The amusement only grew on the criminal's face. "Oh?"

"Dying, that's what people do. Something you said when you and I first met. He wanted me to go to you. You would have some kind of information for me..."

Moriarty merely continued to half-smile, looking at him without really telling him anything. He didn't have the luxury of time to wait. He needed to keep searching for clues. Sherlock turned his back on the unhelpful man and resumed his watching of the video.

_"Your days of freedom have ended."_

John's terrible laugh following DI Dimmock's words. He frowned at the moment, rewinding and playing it back again. There had to be something there because it couldn't be John. No way.

"There."

Sherlock paused the tape and glanced in Dr. Calman's direction, waiting for him to continue.

"The laugh is an empty one. You can see by his throat, the way it trembles that it is forced. It's a lie. Something about that word freedom has him faking a laugh."

He continued playing the video.

_"Why run?"_

_"She surprised me. Caught me off guard. That never happened before."_

_"Yes, but why not clean it up? Make her disappear too?"_

_"You think it was a sign I cared? Some kid gets shot once and someone like me loses it? No. I left no trace of myself at that crime scene. Like I said, my employers have apparently decided they'd like me to take the blame. I ran because killing the girl was not my orders. Self-preservation and all that."_

_"She was shot twice."_

_"What?"_

_"You said some kid was shot once, but the girl was killed by sustaining two bullet wounds to the chest. The first from some distance and the second at close range. Shouldn't the one who killed her know a major detail like that?"_

_"Slip of the tongue. How long are we gonna do this?"_

Sherlock shook his head. "I knew something was off here." He looked straight at Lestrade. "John didn't even know the girl died by two bullets. A second shot at point blank range? It would be impossible for the killer not to know information like that!"

"Well.."

It was Anderson who'd spoken and then stopped. Impatiently, he waved a hand in the man's general direction.

"Spit it out, Anderson."

"The murder of the girl was performed by two bullets, fired from two different guns. It's possible the killshot was not fired from Dr. Watson's gun. The other easily could have been though. It doesn't exactly absolve the man."

That wasn't something he wanted to hear. The consultant returned his attention to the monitor and forwarded a bit, messing around with the controls to find whatever he needed next.

_"Now, they'll make me disappear."_

He replayed John saying those words at least four times before turning to Moriarty once again.

"Jim, do you know anything? Was I right? Was John trying to tell me you could help?"

Moriarty was humming to himself, looking thoughtful. He adjusted a tie that didn't need adjusting, and then slipped his cell phone out of his pocket. Dr. Calman sighed impatiently.

"He knows something. He can help. Go on."

The man smiled at that. "You really are talented. Interesting."

Sherlock's eyes bore into him and he finally held his phone outward to show the video replaying on a loop. It was John. John was in his cell but he was standing, looking timid, appearing to be waiting. For daylight? No, a few seconds later and several men were entering his cell. They were dressed entirely in black and they came at John. He took one down before the other two brought him to the ground, a shiny needle catching the light for just a moment before being thrust into John's neck. Another couple of seconds later and he'd gone still. It was simple enough for one of the men to then hoist him over his shoulder and carry him out while the other helped his friend up and out of the cell. The door shut behind them as though nothing had happened, and then the video cut out.

"Where the hell did you get that?" demanded Lestrade.

"I have eyes everywhere. Your tapes were mysteriously wiped clean at exactly the time it took to get in and out of your station. Luckily the feed was sent to me before someone inside your station wiped your own surveillance tapes clean. So I have the pleasure of watching this on a whim."

"How did you know they were-Oh bloody hell!" Lestrade was so puzzled and lost that it had severely ticked him off.

"How do we know you didn't take him? Those guys could be yours!" Anderson queried, accusing the sole proven criminal in the room.

"Must your default always be set on blaming the most intimidating person in the room?" Sherlock asked, not truly even paying attention to either one of them. His mind was racing through every detail of the video he'd seen.

It shut Anderson right up though. He'd been so wrong about Sherlock. They had all been so very wrong about Sherlock being a criminal seeking attention and had looked like idiots when they'd become aware of their mistake. The press had a field day with the police, Moriarty had once again made headlines as a true criminal mastermind, and crime had increased to an all time high.

Sherlock swayed from where he stood and straightened himself out as his hands went to the sides of his head. Guilt, rage, disappointment, fear, concern...He kept his emotions bottled up for a reason. Not feeling made it much easier to solve cases and get on with answering the things he required answered, when he needed it. This time, his refusal to feel emotions had dulled his senses enough that he didn't even observe as he usually did when he was playing sociopath.

"I'm having such a good time, Sherlock. I mean, I can't believe you didn't see it sooner. You seem to have gotten rusty during your time playing dead. It's a good thing we know they won't kill him."

"What? How do you know that?" Donovan inquired, looking bewildered.

"Wanna tell her, Sherlock?" Moriarty smirked. "Awww..poor Sherly, can't even think straight enough to save his pet."

He came at Moriarty then, shoving the smaller man up against the wall. "After what you did to John, you don't get to act like this. Go ahead and have one of your snipers shoot me dead. Run me down in the street. But don't you say a bad word about him if you value your own health. He, of all people, didn't deserve what you did, and I'll never forget those things either."

Moriarty got ugly fast. "Bet you'll never forget those things wouldn't of happened if you hadn't played dead and actually died like you were supposed to."

"Oh don't pretend. You act self-righteous and entitled to be opposed to the "great" Sherlock Holmes, the infamous detective who you just hate to hear about. But John gets to you and you know it. You hurt John because it was John and you wanted to make him pay for being the man he is."

"Is there something I should be knowing about here?" Lestrade asked, concern etched across his already worn face.

There was no official report, nothing to prove what Moriarty had done. John had made certain of that, irrational shame and embarrassment preventing him from coming forward. Not that an official report would have made a difference. Men like Moriarty were untouchable for the most part.

Moriarty was still looking pretty annoyed and there was definitely some pure fury in those mad eyes of his. But just like that, in a single blink, the dark emotion vanished, replaced by unmistakable pride.

"Fine, if you can't explain to the police why they won't kill John, and what you've missed completely, I will." He blandly scanned the room of cops plus Sherlock, and then began. "John Watson is a soldier. Killing is precisely within his capabilities."

"Are you saying-"

The criminal shushed Lestrade with a raised palm and an impatient look, before continuing. "John also has strong morality and would never take a life unless another's was under immediate threat. Therefore, John Watson would not murder. In conclusion,"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. The terrible man was enjoying this far too much.

"John can kill. John will not murder. Therefore, John is being forced to murder."

He said that all in his obnoxious sing-songy voice, and he was badly tempted to rearrange the horrid man's face in that very instant. Instead he thought of John and what could be happening to him, and for once, it resulted in his hard drive switching back on.

"They've taken him so he can continue his work. The people who are forcing him to murder gave the police a face to blame, to hunt, for all those people dying. It doesn't mean they're done with him."

His calm theorizing gave way to frustration and renewed confusion. "Still, this doesn't make sense! John would never kill just because he had a gun to his head or even a gun to another's. He doesn't have it in him to be so..cold-blooded."

Moriarty smirked slightly. "You don't have to tell me. Murder is not in John Watson's heart. The fool couldn't even kill me."

He stared at the man. This was new. "How do you mean?"

The smirk only widened, scanning his audience of police and a single consulting detective with impunity. "When the good doctor came to end my life those months back, to avenge your supposed death, he hesitated, choked. He-could-not-do-it. Such a heart of gold in that one. But where's that gotten him?"

"Okay that's enough. If you're right, Sherlock, bodies are going to start popping up again and it's my job to prevent that."

Lestrade's attempt to derail the current direction of the conversation was in vain, the criminal had Sherlock's captive gaze and he was going to take full advantage.

"The saying is true I guess. Heroes are doomed to end tragic."

Dark eyes looked pointedly at Sherlock, who in turn, was looking impatient and upset. John was missing, likely in duress, and he didn't know what was to be done in this moment. That was why he gave the man before him his attention. He was dangerous and at times childish and might possibly decide he didn't want to be ignored. So he'd give him his time for now, while he couldn't do anything for John. He didn't have to pretend to like the other man though, and would display his disinterest in Moriarty clearly.

"Are you still on about me and you?" Sherlock questioned, staring with disdain. "Oh turn the page, will you? Everyone else has."

His enemy sneered at the blatant disgust shown for him. "Ooooh. Someone's touchy. You may have turned the page on my giving you your-well-deserved-fall, but not about my..one on one time with Dr. Watson. I thought you'd appreciate it. I mean, I told you I wanted to try having a live-in of my own. You should be flattered I chose yours to be mine."

"John doesn't _belong_ to me, you git. And he certainly doesn't belong to you."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Anderson and Donovan shifting from where they stood against the wall. They were contemplating leaving out of politeness, but like the average person, they chose to stay out of some kind of morbid fascination with the battle of wits on display. He tried to pretend he didn't have emotions most of the time because they often proved to be a hinderance, clouding his mind from figuring things out. It wasn't going to happen in this moment, when Moriarty tugged at Sherlock's last nerve.

"Well, he belonged to me for six days."

Sherlock spun on the man. "You _raped_ him!"

All of the cops in the room startled, save for Lestrade, who had known of this prior to the man being accused by Sherlock now. To the others, this was the first they were hearing about such a crime. The horrible crime happening to John Watson of all people, made the news even worse. Lestrade was flexing for his weapon, sincerely considering using it against a monster who would do such a thing to his friend.

Moriarty wasn't smiling but he didn't look sorry either. "I admit I was rather rough with him the second go around... Oh?"

Surprise registering with the consulting detective brought a grin to a now incredibly smug face. "Dear me. Did Johnny not tell you about our first time?"

"No. You're lying."

He was gradually meandering about the room, picking up a random object here or there, while savoring the words he told to Sherlock.

"I snatched John that night, shortly after receiving your message to meet at the pool. We had hours to spend together. I played it off as an interrogation tactic, but really, I just wanted to make you suffer by having me be his first time with a man..instead of you."

A puzzled expression overtook Sherlock as he regarded the cruel man currently tapping the fingers of one hand along the length of a nearby table as he went. Moriarty saw it and scoffed with a minor chuckle following.

"Oh don't pretend. You loooove Johnny. Too bad. I had him first."

Sherlock punched the cocky bastard directly under the chin. He was a tad sorry John hadn't been there to do it, knowing the other man probably would have successfully broken a nose or jaw. Still, his own blow managed to leave a small cut on Moriarty's lower cheekbone. He'd prefer to strangle him but he instead focused on centering himself and remembering John's dilemma.

"Lestrade, government officials in the area. Look into it."

"Right. We can try to predict who might be targeted next. Unfortunately, we'll need to look into all government employees and there's no short supply of those."

He nodded to Donovan and Anderson, who left to get a team started, while Lestrade lagged behind. The detective inspector was uncertain about leaving Sherlock and Moriarty alone. It seemed okay. Sherlock had returned his thoughts to his friend, while Moriarty had settled for reveling in this situation by being himself, only less talkative.

"How could I not have seen this before? John tried to warn me about what was going to happen to him." Sherlock noted in horror to Lestrade, who listened sympathetically. "He practically said it flat-out! I missed it. I never miss things. Damn it, John!"

His self-deprecating remarks served to concern the inspector and amuse James Moriarty, the latter who had begun to giggle. Fuckin' insane people.


	9. Nosce Te Ipsum

He badly needed to find John. He required someone sane to keep him stable and composed, to be a wing-man who backed his play and shared honest thoughts without being afraid to do so. Someone to tell him it wasn't all right to rip Moriarty's throat out for hurting John the way he'd done while Sherlock was away. Most of all, he desired someone who would not hesitate to knock Moriarty out for being an attention-seeking child, refusing to leave Sherlock alone for more than a few days before popping up again. Every time there was a homicide and Sherlock was called by Lestrade, the criminal appeared at the scene, looking chipper than the last time he'd come.

Lestrade only bothered to call him when it was a suspected hit performed by John. The silver-haired detective knew Sherlock had one case and one case only he would bother to investigate. The first was a false alarm, a jealous wife spurred on to commit the deed when she discovered a long-time mistress. Sherlock had taken one quick scan of the crime scene and deduced as much, walking out almost as fast as he'd walked in. The second came a week after John went missing, and was without a doubt, the doctor's work. A single professional shot to the forehead marked his kill like before. This time, however, there was another mark left behind at the scene, and the next two scenes that followed.

Messages in red paint remained the solitary evidence left behind. The crime scenes prior to John's arrest had no evidence left and the location of death was spotless, aside from the blood leaking corpse of course. The spray paint was new. An identical phrase was left on the wall of each scene where a body was found, which read: _Audaces fotuna iuvat_. Latin words translating to say that fortune favors the brave.

Why these words were being left, he could not deduce. He was continuing to find similarities concerning the victims though. One, a military captain, the second, a receptionist who worked in a military hospital, and the third, a scientist who turned out to be a weapons specialist assigned to a private contract listed as classified. So classified, even when Sherlock grudgingly went to his brother for help, not even the deeply involved government employee could gain access to the file. By the time two and a half weeks had gone by since John disappeared from his locked cell, yet a fourth murder was committed.

The fourth crime scene had a different tag painted on the wall which Sherlock immediately spotted upon striding into the bedroom where the latest victim lay sprawled across the white carpet. _Nosce te ipsum_. The Latin phrase was scrawled on the carpet above the head of the victim this time, phrase translating to, "know thy self". His brain scrambled to try and formulate what the two phrases had in common or what they could possibly mean to him. Was this John's employer, leaving a message for the police? Or was this something left behind from John himself? Could Sherlock be the one meant to find these messages and decipher them?

"Sheeerrrlock."

"Quiet."

"Sherlock," the irritating voice persisted.

"Not now!" he snapped.

Audible sounds of pouting ensued and he groaned. He couldn't think in these conditions. He couldn't do his proper deductions with John going around killing people and James Moriarty constantly by his side, being..well..himself.

"Oh you'll want to know what I have to say."

Moriarty was right at his ear. Uh uh. He pushed the consulting criminal away and stepped closer to the painted message, leaning down to squint and frown at it sideways. "Fortune favors the brave", and now this, "know thy self". He straightened up and stared ahead as he addressed Lestrade, Donovan, and Dimmock.

"Well, outright, I'd say he's telling us we will be rewarded by our bravery at investigating these crimes. He wants us to keep looking into the victims. This new message, "know thy self", says..well, I'm not quite sure. It does remind me of something he said in the interview."

"We're not who we are. Right, I remember." Lestrade mentioned, looking perplexed even as his brain obviously worked on overdrive trying to figure it out. We're not who we are and know thy self, both referring to some sort of..identity crisis? You're not saying he's got some sort of multiple personality disorder, are you?"

"What? No."

Sherlock immediately dismissed such a ridiculous notion. He scanned the crime scene once more before retreating back into his mind to mull over the Latin phrases in his mind. There was something else he was missing. There had to be more.

"He's being made to do this..somehow... The answer is here. I know it's here. He's been trying to tell me something. I can feel it!"

"You know, simply avoiding use of his name won't change that he committed murder. Think, heart of gold John, out murdering. Really, it warms my heart."

"No it doesn't. Stop talking."

"You're right, it doesn't."

Moriarty tutted and shrugged his shoulders. Placing his hands casually in his very expensive trouser pockets, he started to stroll towards the doorway. The police were looking a tad confused and perpetually annoyed, since having a master criminal constantly about tended to do that to them. They should be arresting him and they couldn't touch him. It was especially difficult that said man was frustrating when his cocky and pompous nature showed through at every opportunity.

"Wait."

Though the other man's back was to him, Sherlock could picture the self-satisfied smile pasted across his face at getting to him. Moriarty always seemed to manage to get at him. Reluctantly, he admitted the other man was knowledgeable, in some ways more so than himself.

"What do you know? Tell me and don't dance around it."

"I know what you're missing. What your brain is frantically trying to grasp at. You're too clooose."

His voice got all high-pitched on the last word. Sherlock took a deep breath, released it, and turned fully around to face his enemy. He very nearly had let Moriarty walk out, but that tiny twinge of doubt, that he couldn't do this alone, stopped him from doing so.

"Where Johnny boy is going to be. The Latin."

The hinting led to brainwaves. He knew. Damn it. So obvious. How he ever missed it was beyond him. Frankly, it was rather embarrassing. He turned to Lestrade to tell him what he knew.. sort of.

///

It took twenty minutes to get across town to the Latin church. A historical place at one point in time, now simply another old building to many in London. Despite the police's attempts to reach the place first, Sherlock's taxi pulled up to the curb alone. He didn't expect the police would be able to arrive for another twenty minutes since he'd given them a false location. They were unintelligent, but the vital clue had been provided, so they'd be to the church eventually. He wasn't letting the police get their misguided and misinformed hands on his friend.

Moriarty stepped out just behind the hurried detective, having scored himself a ride in the same taxi by managing to slip into the back as it began its initial drive onward to the destination. It didn't surprise him that Moriarty was at his speed on the location, but surprisingly, a sleek black car pulled up behind the taxi. Mycroft was here. How odd.

Decidedly, he ignored the car and his brother getting out of it, opting to rush straight inside the church instead. He wasn't sure what to be expecting when he entered the church. Apparently the three men and single woman inside weren't anticipating three well-dressed men arriving either. A glance behind him prompted a correction. Mycroft came into the church with a pair of women. One he recognized to be his brother's assistant, going by the name Anthea, though it most certainly wasn't her true name. The other was younger, mid-20s at most, a natural beauty who wore tight jeans, a fitted black top, and a dark blue leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail and from the stance she took upon stopping a few yards inside the church alongside Mycroft and Anthea, she knew how to handle herself in dangerous situations.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked while he took the time to process the three men they'd stumbled upon, perhaps hiding out or having some kind of meeting.

John was one of them, appearing a tad worse for wear with deep bags under both eyes and a pale hue to his skin and coloring of his eyes. Aside from that he looked all right, so he forced himself to move on to scan the other men with him. One of the men had close-shaven hair, a receding hairline, and a tough exterior. The other man with them had short blonde hair, blue eyes, a sharp jaw-line, and he looked just as unfriendly as the first. The woman had auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and dark eyes. All four of them were dressed near identical. Black combat clothing that included heavy boots and jackets. The woman wore a black baseball cap, however, and John had a tight zipped up combat vest over a t-shirt, but no jacket.

"Her name's Audrey Fenn. She's my friend and these men work with her. Used to. Audrey's decided not to follow her employer's orders any longer."

That explained the black dress of this Audrey and the four standing towards the center of the room.

"Yes, and John's my friend so I'm here to help get him out," confirmed the previously unknown friend of Anthea, solemn as ever.

"Ladies." Mycroft gave them a look. "That's quite enough. No need to divulge any..unnecessary details."

Sherlock sort of frowned and glared at his brother simultaneously. Who was he to say such a thing when he clearly knew more than he was telling just by showing up there? Mycroft drove him insane with his omniscient government crap.

"Scatter," the man with the mostly shaven head said, and they did.

Minutes later and they were vanishing into the rafters or through back pathways. Sherlock didn't even consider chasing the others when John remained where he stood. He removed his holstered sidearm, making them all very much aware they were unarmed themselves.

"John. John, come on. This isn't you. You're my friend. You were never like the rest of them. A good man through and through. John, please. See reason."

"I see fact, Audrey. You have betrayed us."

"No. John. They've been lying to us this whole time."

"You betrayed us. You are retired, soldier."

"Joh-"

The first gunshot blew through her heart, the second, through her forehead. She dropped, long dead before hitting the floor. Anthea screamed, piercing and loud. He'd never seen her appear anything but bored. Enough observing. Sherlock wasted no more time and rushed him. John didn't even fight him and was taken to the floor easily. Still, Moriarty came up beside him and yanked the gun from John's now outstretched hand. Mycroft came up behind them and snatched the weapon from the criminal.

"I'll hold on to this, seeing as how it is damning evidence against John here."

"John."

John stared blankly up at Sherlock. A gaze that was unfamiliar, glazed, devoid of any thought or emotion that he could see.

"Please, John, say something."

The eyes moved past Sherlock, to stare at Mycroft.

"You're a tough cookie to track down."

He forced himself not to look startled at John's words to his sibling. Sherlock glared over his shoulder at his withholding brother, mind set on the man under him all the while.

"What are you getting at?"

He'd turned back to John but he wasn't certain who he was talking to anymore. He stood, tugging John up with him, and pushed past Moriarty in order to seat him insistently in one of the pews. Then his attention strayed over to Mycroft again.

"Spill."

"This is my fault." It was Anthea who'd spoken. She was kneeling beside her now dead friend, but managed to stifle the sobbing so her speech would be clear.

Sherlock took a step closer to where the woman knelt but didn't move too far from where John sat. "What do you mean?"

"I've known Audrey Fenn since she was a little girl. She was in the army and always meant to be. A fighter searching to make the entire world a more peaceful place. It was all she ever wanted. I met her at the funeral of her officer father. A great man, killed in the line of duty."

His impatience got the best of him. "And?"

Anthea was unaffected by his coldness toward her obvious grief. She did get to the point for him though. She was in a bad way, but remained clear-minded enough to understand how deeply personal this was for him, too.

"I introduced John to a man named Joshua Donovan. Joshua got Audrey in on a special project that started up about a year ago. I thought he'd be able to get John a job, too."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why would John be interested in working for the government? He's a doctor. He had a job at the hospital."

"Purpose," breathed Moriarty, looking fascinated. "A desperate attempt to regain some semblance of the life he maintained with Sherlock Holmes. Aww..poor puppy."

It grabbed Sherlock's attention momentarily and he frowned at the sight in front of him. John continued to sit ramrod straight, eyes staring ahead. The difference now was that Moriarty had taken to kneeling on the seat of the pew just before him so that he could stare straight into those oddly cold eyes. That he couldn't even distinguish who had the more eerie gaze at the moment, was not comforting. Sherlock came and flipped out his phone, zoomed in on John's face for a full minute, and then stepped back again. Moving about the hard floor of the church as he messed with his hand-held device, his mind was whirring all the while.

"Whatever Dr. Watson has gotten himself involved with, it is extremely confidential." Mycroft shared. "Not even my, admittedly extensive reach, could garner anything more than that it is a recent project involving those with military experience."

"Don't be obvious. Of course it's something military. The past hits were government employees, primarily military. Give me something of use. Something that can make John stop..acting like..well, not John!"

Mycroft approached John, not at all fearful, but there was a tenseness displayed on his forehead. He wasn't afraid but he was uncertain. There was a big-time government project ongoing that he hadn't been made aware of. If anything, this was at least unfamiliar to him and it made him feel rather disagreeable about the whole situation. Sherlock could read him like a book. Right now, John he couldn't read at all.

"You waited here for a reason, didn't you? Your friends ran, but you stayed. Are you following orders, Dr. Watson?"

"I was to find a difficult man to find." John shared with his interrogator, breaking his stare with Moriarty in favor of turning slightly to look up at the man coming to stand in front of him.

Balancing on his umbrella, he regarded the man seated calmly before him. "Well, you've found me. What now? Hm? What possible reason would your employer have for you needing my company?"

"It wasn't your company I sought. Your assistant is never far from you and we required her to flush the traitor out."

"Impressive. Mission accomplished. But you left clues my brother surely could figure out himself which means you wanted him here. Why?"

John said nothing.

"There are ways to get him to tell us what we need." Moriarty hummed. He was intrigued to be certain, apparently invested as well, oddly enough.

"Torture will do no good," announced Sherlock.

He was reading a text on his phone and then it rang. The consultant answered and switched it to speaker.

"Say out loud what you just texted me, Dr. Calman."

"Calman?"

Moriarty sounded surprised at the name popping up again, that the two were apparently continuing to communicate, but was interested. Sherlock rarely relied on others to help him out. Rarely required such a thing. Interesting.

_"I've reviewed the brief video you sent me several times. The lack of emotion and thought is a trick..rather..a drug. He's been dosed. The glazed and distant look is unmistakable."_

"So you see," Sherlock explained, "Torture would be useless. He cannot tell us what we want to know. Even if he wanted to, the drug blocks him from doing so."

"Some sort of control drug?" Mycroft pondered out loud. "I'd heard rumors of a project attempting to create superior soldiers with the use of a drug. The desired effect of the drug was to make soldiers who were more controlled in strength, agility, and composure in the face of soldiers. Downright controlling the soldiers actions themselves to the point where they are not even under their own control is..impossible."

"Unethical. Those poor people. John..." Anthea looked close to tears once more.

_"There's something else. For a brief millisecond, I did spot an emotion in the video you sent. A thing that could be a temporary break-through from the drug. A potential to mean your Dr. Watson has been leaving you a trail to follow as you hoped."_

"So it's possibly he's fighting this drug when he can? Because he wasn't drugged when we had him in jail and then he was too intimidated to say much. The drug must wear off so it makes sense it could be overcome..though not easy I presume."

If Sherlock was anyone else he might have jumped at Lestrade's sudden input. The first cop to make it to the church. He deduced it would be as such. Lestrade had his respect as one of the least incompetent officers on the force.

_"Fighting off the effects of any drug are awfully difficult but yes, it's a possibility. What I saw for that single moment was the glimpse of a feeling. Agony. Pure agony. I thought you should know because it's what leads me to believe your friend is in there, screaming to be heard."_

"Thank you, Doctor."

He hung up. It was all he'd needed to know. Crouching down in front of John, he met his friend's dull gaze.

"John. John, you in there? Can you hear me?"

"I can hear."

Moriarty snickered, Sherlock shook his head and went on. "John, come on. It's me. Sherlock."

"My employer would like me to warn the lot of you. Back off or he'll do what he always does when someone gets too close to learning the truth."

"What? Are you saying he'll kill us?"

" _I'll_ kill you. I won't even blink."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. You'd never be able to hurt me, kill me. Not Lestrade, Mycroft..not even Moriarty. You're not a killer."

"On the contrary, that's precisely what I am. You saw for yourself. My employer points and I shoot. I follow orders and complete the mission. I never fail."

"Who is your employer? Tell us." Mycroft insisted, standing too close to Sherlock for his liking.

John remained silent. Then looked straight ahead at Moriarty like he was going to be sick. "Simon Walker."

He jolted to his feet so sudden, it had Sherlock and Mycroft back-peddling before they realized what they were doing. The added shock as he backflipped over several pews to land neatly on one a few feet further was stunning. Did the drug perhaps also enhance one's physical agility? He raced for the stain-glass windows at a side of the church and dove straight through one without hesitation. Glass shattered everywhere and the sounds of sirens growing nearer reached their ears. Somehow, Sherlock suspected John must have heard the sound himself, before any of them had. It was what he had been waiting for.

Orders to kill the traitor, made sense. Orders to stay until the police arrived, maybe. Or maybe, maybe John had managed to linger behind still technically following orders, so that he could manage to choke out the name. Sherlock did know for certain the name was unlikely to have been intended to be provided by any employer. It wouldn't have made any sense that he could accept. So he would find Simon Walker and get some answers. He'd find John and bring him home and he was going to make it happen soon.


	10. Freedom

It soon became clear how improbable it was Simon Walker was John and the others' employer. His file was easy enough to find, his recent history classified, enough to arouse suspicion. The man, himself, cornered quite easily. They trapped him on the rooftop of a building, along with the woman they'd seen in the church, with what seemed to be half the London police force bearing down on them.

Dimmock and Lestrade arrived first at the scene, two other officers at their backs. It became a peculiar situation when Sherlock made it to the roof to find the man calm and composed, pistol pointed at the four policemen identically holding their own sidearms at him, while the unidentified woman was freaking out. She wasn't panicked, but she was kneeling on the ground, head in her hands, mumbling nonsensical words to herself.

He'd had both Mycroft and his sworn enemy disappear on him shortly after the brief meet with John at the church. Not-John really. He couldn't call that thing John when it simply wasn't. The man in that church had been like a shadow of his dear friend. Sherlock's attention was drawn to the woman who'd taken to sobbing hysterically.

"What's wrong with her?" Lestrade demanded of the male companion of hers, Simon Walker, who actually was in control of his faculties and a potential threat to them.

The man, late 20's or so, ran his free hand through his short, ruffled blonde-brown hair, and then dropped the gun. "This is what they do to us and what can happen after. She's been on the drug for such a prolonged period, she doesn't know what to do now that the drug doesn't control her. She doesn't know what to do with freedom."

"Whoah, whoah, what is she doing?" questioned Dimmock.

The woman was backing up to the ledge of the rooftop.

"Stop. Careful! You'll fall!" Lestrade warned.

Her head began to shake from side to side. "We're not who we are. We're not..who..we are."

"Karen. Wake up." He looked to them. "Stay back. The police don't want to get involved in this. It'll only make things..messy. I let you get us up here because I need help. I'd hoped it'd come from your brother actually, Mr. Holmes."

"How do you know who my brother is? How do you even know I have a brother?"

He usually liked to keep that fact well hidden to avoid pesky requests such as this. In this case, he was willing to let it go since it involved John. Sherlock blocked out the still murmuring woman at the roof's ledge. It was the rooftop of a flat, in a part of the city not far from Bart's actually. Hm..rooftops. He didn't quite like those so much any more, not that he ever had much of an affinity for them prior to his fall.

Now that Simon Walker had tossed his weapon, Lestrade made it his mission to edge towards the man. He kicked the gun in D.I. Dimmock's direction when he reached it, then cautiously lowered his own sidearm as he regarded the person of interest.

"Your name is Simon Walker, an American, field agent in the CIA until recently becoming involved in some top secret program. Why are you in London, Mr. Walker?"

Lestrade asked this because he'd been filled in by Mycroft before the man left to attend to secretive government affairs or whatever. They knew plenty about Walker, but not exactly anything that informed them of what his connection to John was. Well, except the mystery drug apparently. He really would like to know more about this drug.

"I do need to speak with your brother, Mr. Holmes. It is of the utmost importance."

"We're not who we are."

Simon jerked forward to grab at his obviously disturbed friend. He was too late and they were all startled to witness her let herself drop backwards off the edge.

"Bloody fuckin' Christ!"

Lestrade raced to the spot where she'd dropped as though it would somehow make a difference. He turned towards the CIA agent, disgruntled and upset.

"What was that? Did you know that was going to happen? Cause it looked like you did."

There seemed to be a sadness in his eyes for a moment, but it was brief, and then he'd returned to business with them. "I knew it was a possibility. The ones who were injected at the beginning of the super soldier project a year ago, seemed to have a lot more trouble readjusting once the doses stopped. Of late, they appear to have perfected the control element of the chemical and my source of information in our work to stop the project has quieted. Still, I did get one last thing. A mark for assassination right here in London, tomorrow morning during an outdoor ceremony. Can I speak to your brother now?"

///

Twenty minutes later found Dimmock and Anderson dealing with the suicide, while Lestrade called Donovan, Sherlock called his brother out of necessity, and Moriarty just showed up. They'd relocated to a crowded pub where Walker could continue his explanation of the extremely secret super soldier project. Sherlock listened intently as the American told them about the bank man and lawyer, Victor Sloan, and the two founders, Cal Shaw and Myra Jones. The pair of them had been recruiting candidates for testing their drug and completing missions over the last year, all sworn to be in the name of patriotism. They had a leading super soldier as well, who was not under the control aspect of the drug but with all the other benefits. Essentially, he sent the test subjects on their missions and ensured operations ran smoothly.

"I managed to escape from the project two months ago." Walker shared with the gathered five. "A man helped me get away. Got me off the drug and made me see what they'd been doing to me, to all of us. We were told it was a project to create better soldiers, fewer casualties. The man showed me their true intentions were much less patriotic. All along they intended the drug to completely control the soldiers so they'd have their own army of assassins. Eventually widespread dispersal would allow them complete control of a city, a country, and beyond. You get the idea."

"The target. You know who it is?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah. Chances are, you've at least heard the name yourself. He's a public figure. Big time CEO of a private company and I guess a former contractor the project has decided to get rid of. Must have decided to go with someone else. Someone cheaper maybe. It was the last intel. I got before my guy went dark. He must have been discovered. Probably dead, or worse..dosed heavy. I remember what that was like. Worst feeling in the world, being aware of your actions but not being able to do a damn thing to stop doing them."

Sherlock already had suspected but now he knew. He leaned forward to have his suspicion confirmed. "Your inside man. What was his name?"

"Oh. Accepted into the program because of his military background and notable marksman skill. When he got me out, under the condition I continue to pull others out where I could while laying low under the radar, he stayed right in the heart of all that danger. This guy was crazy. He knew from the start the project was bad and went in pretending to go along with the rallying cry of protecting the nation bullshit, just so he'd be in a position to learn more and stop it. Had a woman with connections to the government who'd be able to step in when he had enough on them. Bravest man I've ever met. I really hope he's all right."

He raised an eyebrow at him and tensed, prompting Walker to recall the initial question. "His name was John. Captain John Watson. Managed to make himself one of the best of the soldiers in the project."

"This assassination is important?"

"Oh yeah. The target was heavily involved in the project. Knows way too much to not be a threat."

"So there's a chance someone may come to oversee the assassination is successful?"

Walker nodded. "A hit like this, there'll be a primary assassin, a team, and Parker will be there for sure."

"Parker?"

"Dominic Parker, former military, current leader of operations for the super soldier project. He's the one doping himself with the drug that's got it all except for the control factor. In my opinion, he basically runs the whole thing."

"Right. Let's get this Parker and find John." Sherlock decided, standing suddenly enough to startle the whole table.

Lestrade glanced the detective consultant's way, looking bothered. "And maybe save a man as well, yeah?"

"Yes. Right. Let's go."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to shoot out of his seat without warning. "What the-Where the hell did he go?"

Sherlock glanced about. Their recent avenue of information, Simon Walker, had slipped away without notice. Well, maybe Moriarty had noticed. He was smiling at them with no small amount of amusement. A moment later, and he began to hum pleasantly to himself. Fuckin' insane people.

///

_The following evening. 8 p.m. CEO Michael Radigan's speech to the public and investors on the future of his medicinal company._

 

"I have been reliably informed this is the heart of activity for the private team of security that has been hired for the event."

"And you're certain this Dominic Parker and his men are here disguised as security?"

"Yes, a thousand times yes, Sherlock. It doesn't take a genius to work that out. It's the best method of moving about unnoticed and this street right here rises up, perfect spot for a sniper to set up with the street closed off from traffic of any sort. Perfectly useful for slipping away when the deed is done as well."

"Mmm."

Mycroft Holmes was rolling his eyes at his brother's inability to believe the information he provided, when his brother's cops showed up. Two cars with lights flashing following Greg Lestrade and Lieutenant Donovan in his unmarked vehicle. Well, the manner of arrival was more than inadvisable. Of course, it was also inadvisable to have James Moriarty present with one of his thugs. This one was tall and dark haired and he would have a complete file on the man within the hour. If Sherlock could have his way he'd probably kill Moriarty on the spot, but Mycroft was about business and knew it was much less effective to kill the man controlling such a large web of crime, rather than destroying the web itself.

No sooner had the police exited their cars, when they all of them found the men posing as security. Technically, the men found them. Their ambush had abruptly become themselves being ambushed. Hardly surprising when the police decided to show up minus the subtlety. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes a second time and instead took in the situation at hand.

An assortment of men in black combat gear and baseball caps were standing in a line across the street from them, coming from the narrow alleys between buildings. Some using the cover of parked cars while others simply stood out in the open. All of them maintained expressionless faces and professional demeanors, as they leveled their handguns or automatics at the handful of police and assembled but unlikely team of Mycroft, Sherlock, Moriarty and his man, and two of Mycroft's own suited men. The police didn't even have the opportunity to draw their own weapons they'd brought along. This had become disastrous at an alarmingly rapid rate.

A man came forward from among the line of armed men, even as a few men continued to edge around to create a kind of semi-circle around them. They all recognized him from the photographs Mycroft had provided after a bit of research into the very secretive government project. He was one of the project heads, and he'd come to this hit personally. The government official among them took it upon himself to speak to the man who had come to a stop partway through the street.

"Cal Shaw. I'd say it was a pleasure to meet such an internally well known government figure such as yourself, but, well, the circumstances call for something quite different."

"Well known? Well, that was unintentional, I assure you. I keep my business to myself. It seems you prefer to do quite the opposite, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Mycroft smiled a thin, forced smile. "I've done my research. You steal or blackmail the majority of your funding, you exploit good soldiers and agents to accomplish your own selfish ends, and you are betraying the very organization you swore to serve. I believe my attention is directed appropriately."

"Oh but I am defending our great country and securing the future. This nation will never be stronger."

"Right. So long as you are running things?"

"Precisely. My new drug will allow me to do just that. Whole cities will fall under my sway and everything will be perfect harmony. No more crime, no more disobedience, and everyone who I need to do my work, will do it without question. Perfect harmony."

"No free will. How very..progressive of you." Sherlock muttered.

A loud roar of applause rose up to the street where they stood. It grabbed Shaw's attention and he glanced backwards toward his men.

"It's time. Parker!" His attention returned to Mycroft, scanning briefly over the others with him. "A hit like this, I leave it to my best marksman to do the deed."

A man with light blonde hair cut short, blue eyes, and black combat gear came around the side of one of the parked cars. He was the only one, aside from Cal Shaw, who wasn't wearing a baseball cap. Perhaps it was a way of distinguishing rank, because the manner in which he held himself and practically looked down his nose at them, informed of his obvious superiority complex. The man gave a cursory examination of his opposition, then looked to Shaw.

"Did you want me to take them out?"

"Absolutely not, Parker. The noise of the gunfire would alert the actual security down below and the target would be moved to safety. We take out the target, then we take out the chaff."

The police were offended at being called chaff, while Mycroft looked unimpressed. Self-invested men could be expected to act like this. On the outside, the official was calm and still, but he was searching for a time to get the upper hand.

"Okay, boss, as you wish." Parker said, then glanced behind himself towards one of the dark alleys. "Captain!"

He appeared almost grudging about calling out to another, and Sherlock realized it was jealousy. According to the CIA operative, Walker, Dominic Parker was the man in charge of the soldiers and the missions. It would seem even he was not as skilled as another shooter though. The shooter separating himself from the others dressed exactly like him, save for the assault vest he seemed to solely wear, was better. He'd traded the t-shirt they'd last seen him in, for nothing underneath the vest, though he wore an identical jacket to the others in its place, along with the same black baseball cap.

Even dressed so differently, he was unmistakable. Even with dark rings under his eyes and a pale, thin looking face, he was still the same. He was still John.

John did not acknowledge the audience. He acknowledged his superior, Parker, and then walked forward and to the right of the cops and the others, for the highest point of the rising street, with a metal case in one hand. He set to work immediately and expertly, placing the case on the ground and removing the rifle. As he began to assemble the rifle, attaching the sniper scope and altering the settings on the weapon, Lestrade made a move that did not go unnoticed.

The inspector tried to quietly draw his weapon from its holster and what he got for his trouble was a reminder of the firing squad waiting to open up on them. The guns came up to point at him and the rest, tighter, some pulling the hammer back in preparation to shoot. Dominic Parker took it upon himself to personally draw his own sidearm and aim it at the detective inspector as well, but it was Cal Shaw who forced Lestrade to back down from trying anything to stop John.

"If any of you attempt to interfere with this assassination, then I'm going to have the captain here go with the contingency plan. This event is going on outside a storage facility, where certain water barrels have been discreetly replaced with ones of an explosive kind. If the contingency occurs, captain," he continued, "you will eliminate any who survive the explosion. Confirm command."

"Confirmed, Sir." John responded, positioning his rifle on its stand and taking sight of his target.

Barely a second or two later, and he fired, twice. Screams erupted following the shots, immediate commotion filling the area below. He stared through the scope another moment before appearing satisfied and beginning to disassemble the rifle.

Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest of the police were looking twitchy. Their sense of duty told them they should be busting into action, doing something to appease the panic and distress occurring. It was a little difficult to do so when a number of weapons were pinning them to their current position. John handed off the suitcase to Parker and started to rejoin his fellow soldiers. A raised hand from Shaw, stopped him, and beckoned to him.

"Come here, Captain Watson."

He obeyed, walking over to stand beside him. "These people are here for you. As you can imagine, that is quite an inconvenience for me. It appears your usefulness may have run its course. I cannot have you bringing the law-abiding members of the government down on us. Not before I'm ready for them."

As expected, John said nothing. He did nothing but stare blankly in the direction of Sherlock and the rest. Shaw continued his little speech, apparently unconcerned with getting caught by the police and officials surely crawling all over the place down at the event site.

"I have to say, I'm disappointed you can't be kept. When you came to me, I could see a need in you. A genuine need. I gave it to you, didn't I? The rush, Captain. After retiring from the army, you had nothing to give you the rush. No more danger, no more missions to concentrate on, distract you from the dullness of the domestic life. I gave you the rush you so badly needed. Why deny me? You know you like it."

Nothing from John. Just the empty shell of him standing there, ramrod straight and alert. Sherlock had had enough.

"There's one thing you failed to take into account. John Watson has a great and true heart. He does not murder indiscriminately and even the necessary deaths weigh heavy on his soul. He is pure goodness and that is why you couldn't lure him to your cause. He's not self-centered and self-profiteering like yourself."

Shaw laughed, grinning broadly. "You think your man is so good? He killed countless people before we were able to perfect the drug enough to include the control element. It was why John was so convincing. I never thought a mole would murder innocent people just to keep his agenda secure." He turned toward John, standing silently on his left. "How many people was it, Captain Watson, that you killed on those missions I sent you on? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Nineteen. Twelve men, and seven women."

"Aha! Lovely. Nineteen. You really are the best."

Parker grumbled in the background, bringing a smirk to Shaw's face. "Our Captain Watson, he only faltered when a child came into play. The drug took care of the hesitation though. And my backup man, Parker here, took care of the girl. That night, was when our secret little mole here understood what our intentions were to be with the drug we were creating. A control element in addition to the enhanced physical attributes the drug already provided, to create the perfect, obedient soldier. Well, when John tried to run from a mission, we searched deeper and exposed him for what he was. So..." He waved a hand in the direction of the police standing slightly behind Sherlock and Mycroft. "We had the police detain him. A fall man is useful that way..then we snatched him right back, gave him our latest design of the drug, and here he is, obedient and loyal. No doubts on our part any longer about whether he will obey. However, despite the drug, he fights it. Astonishing really. The first to do so. Despite all of that, he finishes the mission in the end, regardless."

"And how well exactly do you take care of your soldiers? Hm?" questioned Sherlock, eyes narrowed at Shaw.

He was trying to ignore the vacant stare his friend was giving him, though he threw his friend a concerned glance every other second. He couldn't help it. This was so..not John. Shaw's attention was now his though.

"Hm..How do you mean?"

"When was the last time you ordered John to sleep? Eat?"

Shaw didn't even look at John, eyes only for Sherlock now, as he gave his command. "Answer the man, John."

"I have not slept for seven days. Four days without food."

Sherlock was beyond horrified. He felt that ever present urge to physically do harm to the boastful and overconfident man opposite him. When Cal Shaw shrugged off the mistreatment of his drugged up servant, it was hardly surprising. They were all pawns to be used to achieve his goals, and John was no exception.

"Ah. Well, I'll have to have you do those things soon, supposing you live. Here's how it is going to go. John will kill all of you, or you will kill him."

"No. John would never kill me." Sherlock claimed, loudly. "He wouldn't kill Lestrade, Mycroft-not even Moriarty. It isn't in him to murder. His heart is too good."

Shaw was laughing again and it ruffled him a bit. He'd rather not be laughed at. He would also rather not be proven wrong and so he believed completely that he must be right. John was still in there. He could get through to him. He could save him.

"It doesn't matter what John Watson was or used to have. He's nothing more than a puppet now. John," He nodded towards the empty looking man. "Go ahead and cut your arm."

"Don't!"

The shout came out before Sherlock could stop himself but it did little good. He was helpless as John unsheathed the combat knife from his belt, held out his left arm, rolling the sleeve up, and cut a line across it, red spilling out of it. Shaw was grinning widely again.

"Alright, stop, John. Now, while my men pack up to go, John, take care of our unwelcome guests. Leave none alive."

Once the command was given, he turned and walked back to his gathered men, some standing down while the rest remained with weapons up and ready. John, meanwhile, cocked his head to the side, flipped the knife up, and promptly sprang forward to attack. He went first for the closest, Mycroft, who was saved by two suits leaping in front of him.

John shoved one away, put the other to the ground, placed his hands on the sides of his head, and snapped his neck. The man dead, he moved on toward Lieutenant Donovan and a pair of cops drawing their sidearms, despite the waiting armed soldiers surrounding them. The soldiers did nothing to stop the guns from being drawn. They apparently were content watching so long as they were not themselves fired upon. Sherlock saw what the pair of cops plus Donovan were about to do, fire on John, and he yelled out his anger at the very thought of it.

"No! Stop! Don't you dare shoot him." His eyes sought out Lestrade, gaze a pleading one, and he didn't do that. Well..he almost never did.

Lestrade saw it and responded as he hoped. "Non-lethal, damn it! Put your guns away. Non-lethal attacks only. The goal is to disarm and apprehend him! Now!"

"Shit!" Donovan swore as she was given the command when John was just about on her.

He was fast. Flexible too, apparently, when one of the police tried to shoot him anyway. John responded by swinging his foot around behind him, knocking Donovan back with a kick to the chest, and then latching onto the gun arm of the armed cop shooting at him. An audible snap was a tell that the arm had been broken, and then he punched the same man in the face, causing blood to spray everywhere from a probable broken nose. The cop went down and John's focus went on to the next target.

"John! Stop! Stop this!"

Lestrade gave it a try himself. "This isn't you, John! Come on, wake up!"

Some of the armed men had gone. Only five men, apart from Parker and Shaw, remained. The five men kept their positions, guns pinned on their would-be targets if they chose to strike against them. Sherlock's attention was for John, but Mycroft was still searching for that opening. He was moving to the left, away from the fight, edging past Moriarty and his tall companion.

"Someone get hold of him!" Mycroft yelled in annoyance.

Keep the man still if they were going to try to reach him with words. Obvious. Surprisingly, the tall man with Moriarty followed his suggestion, lumbering towards the man shoving Lestrade against a car by the throat. The knife was in hand and he brought it up to stab the detective inspector. Sherlock was there to stop him, knocking the knife out of his hand and punching John in the face.

The blow caused John to stumble and then he saw Lestrade and Sherlock there, ready to take him on, followed by Moriarty's guy drawing ever nearer. He responded with ease, literally back-flipping away from them. He knew John couldn't do that, not ordinarily. The enhancing drug. That explained the speed, flexibility, and the impossible ability to have so much energy to expend even after days without food and sleep.

John ran up the side of a car in order to flip over Moriarty's man, then slammed a spread palm against his back. The man fell hard against the car but recovered quick to come at his prey again. Sherlock watched carefully, making sure his friend wasn't in danger with the man currently facing off against him.

The pair exchanged a few blows and then John was overpowering him, impossibly so, putting him back against the car. Hand to hand, he pushed the much more muscular and broader built man away from him, then suddenly brought his knee up into his stomach, extending the leg to strike him in the face. The man slid to the ground, cursing, and Sherlock called out desperately.

"John!"

A most unexpected result followed the emotional outcry. John stopped and turned towards Sherlock, who looked close. Dilated pupils. John, the real John, had heard him. He'd gotten through. Sort of?

John was stumbling, clutching at his head. He let out a strangled cry and fell to his knees. So he was yet fighting the control. The drug was more potent than he imagined. How fascinating. He fought off the smile from his eagerness to learn more about the project's drug. Timing. That's what John would be saying right now. Timing, Sherlock.

A rasping scream tore from John's throat as that was now the area he was clawing at, and then suddenly he stopped that, too. The clawing ceasing, his arms dropped to the side, and his head fell back, exposing the veins in his neck as dark fluid pumped through them to the brain. The drug working overtime to regain control, chemicals doing its job as it was designed to, and they could see it. The dark color of the drug ran from his neck, across the sides of his face, and to the brain. As the drug started to fade, John's head dropped forward, and then he lifted it level to look at Sherlock, Lestrade, and Moriarty's man climbing to his feet. For a moment, his eyes were shrouded in black, but then that faded as well, and he actually bared his teeth at them with a low, primal growl emerging from his throat.

He came at Sherlock this time, possibly blaming him for his temporary pain, hand locking onto his neck and squeezing. Lestrade tried to pull John off with the result of getting punched in the face, and then Moriarty's man was there, freeing Sherlock from the death-grip on his throat. He threw John who hit the ground but rolled smoothly up again after the fall.

One of the police was pulling his gun in response to John coming at Lestrade. He lashed out at the inspector, not noticing the weapon until a bullet passed dangerously close by his ear. The bullet missed hitting him because Anderson had shoved the gun-wielding arm sideways.

"Stop! The orders were non-lethal methods only! Don't use your gun, you idiot!"

"But he's kicking our asses!"

"Non-lethal!"

Sherlock was surprised Anderson had managed to make himself useful for once. He'd saved John's life and created a distraction. The drug controlled doctor was shifting his angered gaze to Anderson and the cop who'd shot at him instead. This gave an opening for an old foe to enter the fight.

"John. Hi!"

Not John, turned toward the voice behind him and found himself facing Moriarty, who punched him the second he turned. John's head snapped to the side, then slowly he looked back, the minor cut on his face already closing up. Huh, powerful drug. Moriarty responded by feigning another punch and then pushing his fingers into the old wound in his shoulder.

John released a grunt of pain and angry eyes locked with Moriarty's. A backhand drew the inflicter of his pain away, but then Sherlock and Lestrade were on either side of him, pulling on him, pulling him down. He lashed out but then Moriarty returned to lend a hand, and the three of them managed to wrestle him to the ground. He screamed out his fury at being held in place and Sherlock released his arm in favor of grabbing his face instead, staring directly into John's vacant gaze.

"John, please hear this. I'd be lost without my blogger."

There it was again, the dilation of the pupils. And this time instead of chemical rushing through him, it was followed by speech, actual, beautiful words.

"Sher..Sherlock...Sheeerrr-lock!"

"John." He smiled warmly down at his friend.

"Am..I..free?"

Three words that just about shattered his soul. How could such a seemingly insignificant little man affect him so? Consciously, he pushed in all the emotions threatening to come out, to the back of his mind, and answered the man, steady.

"Yes."

"Oh.." John's face darkened. "Not good."

He sat partially up, finding Moriarty across from him, and moved his gaze to the left side of his suit jacket.

"Your gun. Give it to me. Now."

John spoke low, quiet, keeping his face neutral. They realized he was waiting for the moment his former masters became aware of his freedom. Another second and then Moriarty was opening his jacket, revealing he'd been carrying the entire time. John was reaching up to grab the weapon, and then he swung his legs around to get up on one knee. Five shots, five targets, all five armed soldiers falling almost simultaneously, clutching their gun arms or shoulders.

/

The police took over from there, hurrying to secure the weapons from them and to secure their arms behind their backs. Sherlock pulled John to his feet and away from Moriarty at the same time. John let the gun fall from his grasp and let his friend move him away from their longtime enemy. He was shaking off the effects of the drug, or at least trying to, and finally noticed the fresh cut on his arm that was healing well by now, almost completely gone.

His gaze was lifting from the deep cut now barely a scratch on his arm, when he saw where Sherlock had accidentally taken them. They were on the side where the soldiers had once been and where Shaw was lurking. He didn't see Parker.

"Sherlock!"

Too late. Sherlock was ripped away from him and shoved to the ground by Parker. He had a gun drawn and he was putting it to Sherlock's head. Oh, hell no. John saw Shaw and the knife in his grasp, waiting. Lestrade and the police had taken no notice anything was amiss yet, and Mycroft had taken himself to the edge of this chaos with his sole remaining suited agent, talking on his mobile. The knowledge that if he acted it would mean pain or death, and the knowledge that no one else was near enough to act who cared, told him everything. He saw his good friend in immediate danger and the rest just fell away.

"Sherlock!"

He ran forward and tore the gun from Parker's hands, smashing it against his skull. He fell off Sherlock but managed to snatch his weapon and scramble back. He put himself between Sherlock and him, and a slight smile flitted across the military man's face. John knew it was coming from behind, but it was either move and let Sherlock, struggling to shake the dizziness away, get shot, or take it.

Shaw moved up, took a few steps, and stuck the knife under his vest and through flesh. He clenched his teeth to keep the scream in, aware Sherlock was seated on the ground just before him, watching his stupidity. When Shaw shoved the knife in a second time in the same spot, well, who could fault him for screaming then?

It got the attention of everybody though, something he really rather had hoped his shouting of Sherlock's name would have done. A gunshot rang out and the grip on the knife released, Shaw falling with a bullet in his head. Good riddance. A glance backwards told him he had Moran to thank for his saving. How about that.

He'd already felt the drain on his body once he overpowered the drug. Now with a fresh stab wound, he was really quite exhausted. His legs gave out on him but thankfully Sherlock was already there wrapping his arms around him and guiding him to the street below. All he wanted to do was sleep but instead his jacket was being taken off, his vest unzipped and removed as he was turned over onto his stomach.

A giggle escaped him.

"John... Are you laughing?"

"Drug-induced, exhaustion-induced laughter, I swear," he replied, following it with another giggle. "You know, taking my clothes off like this, people will talk."

The fingers prying at his wound, tugging the knife out in one swift motion, now stilled at those words. They resumed in the next moment.

"Yes, well, people do little else. I can't seem... There's a lot less blood than there should be."

"Drug has healing properties. Bleeding should be slowing... It'll be fine. Listen, I can't go to hospital. Nowhere public. Is there somewhere to hide?"

Sherlock looked to his brother. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, I can have a safehouse set up for your use."

"You can use one of mine." Moriarty offered. "I have a place not far, very secure. Who knows who can be trusted in the government these days."

He waggled his eyebrows at Mycroft. "The government has been very bad, bad, bad." Seriousness overcame him in the next second as he returned his attentions to John. "I promise to keep you safe, Johnny. I'll even let the Iceman know where we are, so long as he keeps it to himself. Sound good?"

"Okay. Okay..." he said, letting his head finally come to rest against the ground. God, he was so tired. "Sherlock..you there?"

/

Sherlock eased his friend into his arms, cradling his head against his shoulder with one arm, while the other hand was kept pressed against the bleeding wound in his back.

"I'm here, John. Everything's okay now. Your mission's done."

"Not..finished. Not yet. But..I think a rest..would be..."

He didn't complete the sentence, exhaustion overwhelming him, and he passed out. Sherlock shook him, at first concerned it was his wound. A second examination of the stab wound told him it was nothing serious and John was merely tired. Shifting him a bit, noting how he really fit well in his arms, he picked him up and stood.

A deep sigh passed his lips. "Inform Mycroft of the location and we will go to your safehouse. Your help had best be sincere, Moriarty, or you will have me to answer to."

"Myself as well." Mycroft added, giving Moriarty a stern look.

"That goes for me, too." Lestrade voiced, glaring at the criminal mastermind.

Moriarty didn't seem particularly bothered. In fact, he was..singing? His man did the confirming for him.

"The deal has been made. We will uphold it and hide John Watson while Mr. Holmes cleans up the internal catastrophe that is supposedly legitimate government. We need to go. The transportation isn't far. Let's move out!"


	11. The Boring Man

He roused from heavy sleep when he felt the car swerve to a halt, presumably outside the safehouse. A quick glance out the window told John he was accurate, the random house among the trees telling him they were no longer in London. Somewhere not far he could judge by the night still being very much night. Sherlock was noticing his return to consciousness. He responded by straightening into a proper seated position instead of staying where he'd been pulled against his friend's side.

Distance would make this easier. He didn't plan to stick around. He wasn't going to stay and hide like everyone wanted him to, especially when this was something James Moriarty was going along with and even helping. Why would the criminal help him, help Sherlock? Either something else was going on or he was enjoying himself far too much.

Anger at Sherlock was building, even as he stoically got out of the car and walked towards the house on his own damn feet, despite Sherlock's attempt to guide him along. Sherlock was being very un-Sherlock, guilt evident in his eyes. The sorry idiot was blaming himself for what John had chosen. Where'd the emotionally constipated Holmes disappear to all of a sudden? Four months the man had been back to his usual self, uncaring about the majority of things life had to offer, living for the high that puzzling cases gave him. Then John gets into a sticky situation and the detective consultant became all concerned and guilty over him. How inconvenient.

They'd barely followed Moran and Moriarty into the house when he decided it best to push the idea out of Sherlock's head before it could fester. His flatmate liked to think he was right and would want to act on it somehow. He was in enough danger unless he finished this now. He didn't need Sherlock to get himself involved, and in effect, into danger.

"Stop doing that."

Sherlock glanced down at him sharply. Damn those piercing blue eyes.

"This is not your fault."

The look he was given in return was not one of belief and understanding. If anything, he appeared guiltier.

"This is not your fault!"

He didn't mean to yell. Really, he hadn't meant to shout at the other. When it came to Sherlock though, his temper just seemed to rise so easily. Six months with the man and he wondered if he would ever be the same. He had him back, but he didn't have him back.

"Tell me..."

Great, this was not the beginning of a phrase that meant Sherlock was agreeing and understanding him.

"And be _honest_."

John was surprised. On the word "honest", Sherlock had practically hissed at him. He had a point there. John had been less than truthful to his friend since he'd returned from the dead. He waited apprehensively for the big question he knew was coming.

"Would you have gone into such danger in your endeavor to continue stopping crime, had I not left you the way I did? Don't lie."

So Sherlock knew plenty. He'd figured out John's desire to continue living a life at least similar to the one he'd gotten with the consulting detective. Sherlock had deduced John had gone to extreme measures to continue making himself useful as well as placing himself in the danger he sometimes craved. Worst of all, he knew the reason he put himself in the hands of the government in the search for justice and saving lives. He couldn't go back to the army, with his psychosomatic leg occasionally acting up, and instead took a different route. The route was one he would never have taken, if he hadn't seen his dearest friend leap off of a bloody roof right before his eyes.

There was only silence following the question and he knew it said everything Sherlock needed to hear. "As I thought."

He looked away, taking in their new accommodations. A variety of furnishings filled the single-story house's central room. All of the furnishing were a deep chestnut color or a crimson shade. There was a sofa, a few armchairs, several tables, a bookshelf filled with books, and heavy curtains blocking the windows. To him, it all felt like it was very much Moriarty style, knowing there most definitely was such a thing because he knew the man. A small standard kitchen branched off from the sitting room and there was a hall with four different doorways but beyond that he couldn't know what was behind those doors from his current position.

His body was telling him he was tired, exhausted even, but his mind was wired above and beyond having any desire for sleep. The human brain was a complex system and yet so simple. Any ordinary man would be how he was, exhausted and wishing for rest to come. But he also understood what he could not have and that was rest. Right now he had to get the job done before it was too late. The rest could come later. This was all on him. His handler wouldn't help him any more. Not unless he came up with concrete evidence his handler could give to his bosses to allow the shut down of the program and warrants to be issued appropriately.

John waved his hand toward one of the armchairs. "Have a seat then, since apparently we're going to be sitting this one out."

There was obvious anger in his voice, admittedly reverting back to a more immature side of himself. It was better than pretending to be calm and having Sherlock worry. He'd much rather have Sherlock be annoyed with him. All right, that was childish, but he wasn't in the mood to care at the moment.

Sherlock budged from the front door but it wasn't to go sit. He was following John as he walked over to the darkened hallway. In the meantime, Moriarty had flopped down on the sofa and was making himself comfortable, fluffing the pillow beneath his head. It was strangely normal to see on a most unusual man. That wasn't his concern though. Getting out was. He snapped at the man currently following to let him alone, it was just the loo, not a warzone.

It was actually Moriarty's chuckling that got Sherlock to retreat away from him. He didn't go over to the armchair, possibly because it was too close to the sofa where his enemy lay. He chose to return to standing blankly near the front door. John knew that mind was anything but blank and on standby, however, frantically churning and spinning a variety of thoughts and ideas throughout his neural pathways.

The bathroom door was the first one on the left. He let it slam shut behind him, releasing a small fraction of the anger he felt towards his current life situation through the action. There wasn't a lock on the door. He doubted it would be a problem. Realizing he actually did have to relieve himself, he did so, fidgeted with his assault vest for a moment, not quite used to feeling such fabric against his bare skin, and flushed. Switching on the sink, he proceeded over to the far side of the room. He unlocked the window and slid it open as quietly as possible. The whole process took a full thirty seconds to ensure he was unheard by the pair of geniuses in the other room. Then, silently as he could, he hopped out the window and onto the grass below it.

He turned away from the house to go and turned into the one man who'd managed to completely slip off his radar. Sebastian Moran was standing a couple of feet from the doorway, mouth slightly agape with a lit cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips. Obviously a man jumping out the bathroom window had not been expected. This man had a gift at slipping into the shadows and into the recesses of a person's mind. John hadn't even considered where the man was after entering the house and it had possibly cost him his escape back to the mission.

"Uh, hi. Err..just going for a stroll?" he tried, oh so pathetically.

Moran wasn't having any of it. He regained his composure, took a final drag on his cancer stick, and let it drop, stomping it out. A glance from the window to John and then he was moving toward him. He backed away but Moran was taking longer strides and then he was being picked up and swung over a broad shoulder. It was utterly insulting.

He heard a door opening and closing, and then Moran's low voice.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Once the words were out, John was promptly dropped onto the carpeted floor just inside the door. He growled angrily up at the reason for his return to this bizarre room where Sherlock and Moriarty stood and weren't in the middle of a battle of the mind, where he was being treated as the silly little man they believed him to be, and where his opinion apparently didn't mean a damn thing.

"You keeping me here solves nothing!"

"John."

He ignored Sherlock. He didn't want to see what he knew was there. A glint in his eyes that gave away his fascination with the mystery to be explored. He knew Sherlock had seen a puzzle to be figured out as soon as he'd discovered there were secrets being kept from him. It was just the way the man's head worked. It needed stimulation and when there was something to be solved, something to be uncovered, he was in it completely until satisfied.

"It isn't done. I have to find the woman in charge since I'm sure she's all over damage control with her partner in the project now being dead. There's no way I can reenter my cover but since they already know, I'll just get in quick and grab what I need."

"Get in-" Sherlock corrected his current line of speaking for another. "Your brilliant plan is a snatch and grab. This is your solution for stopping a currently government sanctioned project that is so classified, hardly anyone even knows it exists?"

John hated the way he was being spoken to, like an idiot, like he didn't realize what he was saying would be a little more difficult than it sounded. He had to try it though or all of his undercover work would be for nothing. Why couldn't Sherlock understand the urge to be out there doing something instead of sitting so idle? It was the very definition of his friend most of the time.

"So what, I should wait here for them to solidify and concentrate a manhunt to come looking for me? Stop acting like you have all the answers and I couldn't possibly have any."

"I don't have all the answers, not a one actually, and that is why you must stay put where I can be sure you're safe."

An admittance of lacking knowledge and of caring... Different. He forced his gaze to meet Sherlock's and saw that damned intensity in those eyes, this time solely focused on him. Or was it the mystery that was now him? Was it concern for his well-being or was it fascination at a puzzle to be worked out?

"You can't be sure I'll be safe, not ever. That's just how life works. I can't believe you're actually placing your trust in Moriarty of all people to keep me safe. Are you mental?"

If possible, Sherlock's eyes seemed to fade to a lighter color. At the very least, the eyes definitely looked colder than before.

"Don't be naive. I don't trust him. You said you wanted to come here. That's the only reason we're here. If you want to go, fine, but it will be in the company of Mycroft and his people. Anyone else, even Lestrade, would probably be foolish enough to let you..I don't know, slip out a bathroom window. We won't be making that mistake again, will we? No unsupervised visits to the toilet. You've lost that privilege."

"What? Now you're making rules? Hell no, I'm leaving and you won't stop me-ow."

He stared wide-eyed at the needle in his arm, plunger pushed all the way in so that the syringe was now entirely emptied. John couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe Moran had actually resorted to drugging him into compliance.

"You..carry sedative filled plungers around often?"

Moran gave a jerky shake of his head. "Only when dealing with irate doctors who won't listen to reason."

He managed a scoff, even as his head grew light, limbs growing heavy. "You're the ones who won't hear reason. I am extremely pissed. Someone had better catch me."

Arms snagged him out of the air when his legs began to sag, gravity doing its work against him. He stared up at Moran and spotted a second head coming into the quickly fading picture. Before he could see quite who it was, his vision went haywire and he allowed his drooping eyelids to close, accepting the invading darkness.

/

"How dull."

"Shut it, Jim."

"Why should I?" Moriarty countered.

"Because you're still a bastard."

The other man smirked for Sherlock, though his attention was on surveying Moran carrying a limp doctor into one of two bedrooms. They both knew if Moriarty decided to turn on them now, there wouldn't be time enough to act to stop them on his brother's behalf. As much as he didn't like to admit it, his brother had his uses since the government seemed to have some sort of dependence on him which gave him a useful position of power.

Moriarty followed his man down the corridor, glancing Sherlock's way. Every look of Moriarty's had some kind of meaning and this was no different. He followed grudgingly after the other man.

"I wonder, how much it would bother you if I were to figure this little puzzle of ours out. Does this go deeper? Or is Dr. Watson yet another ordinary, everyday man who was tricked into working for bad men?"

"You know it isn't as simple as that. John's not stupid."

The other raised his eyebrows at him. "Really? Hearing you talk, sure sounds like you find the man to be just that. Poor Johnny even thinks you believe he's an idiot, incapable of making his own decisions."

"Not true."

Moriarty's hands went into the pockets of his dress pants and he shrugged, head beginning to follow a sort of stretching pattern with his neck.

"Doesn't matter if it's true, only what he believes to be true."

"So what?" Sherlock began, entering the bedroom after Moriarty, who told Moran he could leave the room. "Since you can't seem to kill me, you're going to hurt John? Make him think mean heartless Sherlock couldn't care less about his friend?"

"I don't have to lift a finger." Moriarty drawled contentedly. "You're already doing a wonderful job convincing him of that all on your own. Now..if you'll excuse me..."

The man started humming to himself as he crawled onto the bed and began undressing the unconscious former army doctor. Sherlock's expression became one that could only be described as stricken. He was uncertain in these situations of former victim and assailant, enemy seemingly aiding an enemy. What should be allowed? What could be trusted?

Moriarty ceased his movements after removing the vest and observing how frigid the other man in the room had become. He rolled his eyes impatiently, and with clear annoyance tilted his head in Sherlock's direction.

"What?" His eyes scanned John's prone form on the bed, his current half-dressed appearance, and rolled the thought of the past between him and the man beneath him through his head. "Oh come now. It's no fun when they're unconscious."

The joke was in poor taste but so very much like Moriarty to say such a feelingless thing. He wasn't a human being. He made a mockery of what he thought the average human being to be like. Sherlock sometimes wondered about what made Moriarty tick, but when it came to protecting John, there was no middle ground. It would be John every time.

While he thought, Moriarty's searching gaze caught something. Sherlock frowned to peer more closely and see what the other man was seeing. His interested look was on the jagged scar, nearly three inches in length, located on John's left arm. A mark left behind when his friend had been held captive by the psychopath for almost an entire week. Moriarty appeared almost mesmerized by the mark. It didn't sit well with him.

Sherlock moved over to the bed and pushed Moriarty away, resuming the task of removing John's black soldier attire himself.

"Rape or not, I don't think he'll want you touching him."

Moriarty sighed and cracked his neck in an exaggerated fashion. "Ah well, suppose I'll go take my evil self and leave the pair of you alone."

"Moriarty."

The man paused in the doorway, waiting.

"Why do this? Why help us?"

"Because it intrigues me?"

Sherlock shook his head. No, he wasn't buying that. The other understood what the motion meant and a grin overtook his prior straight face.

"Who says I'm helping you?"

"What? Well, clearly you-"

"Surely you of all people know what the ordinary folk say about appearances."

Of course he did. They could be deceiving. He did it all the time to get the results he wanted but he didn't comprehend what that had to do with Moriarty giving him and John a place to hide out from the latest people who wanted them dead. Apparently the criminal consultant wasn't about to divulge his latest thoughts or planning, choosing to say his own thing.

"What really draws me in to this at the moment, is how such a boring man can draw so much interest to him." The man wiggled his eyebrows at him. "I can't wait to see what happens next."

That all familiar churning feeling in the pit of his stomach was back. Moriarty's ability to make him both curious and utterly disgusted at the same time was uncanny. He turned his back to the door and he could hear Moriarty's footsteps moving down the hall and away from them. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pulled the covers over John's mostly naked form, relieved to find there were no fresh wounds. It appeared the drug was extremely effective at speeding up the body's natural instinct to heal itself. His initial response was a desire to dissect this formula and examine it through a microscope. He glanced down at John and felt a different kind of feeling tugging at his brain.

Sherlock grabbed a chair and tugged it over to the bed before having a seat in it to continue watching over John until the man would wake again. Placing his fingertips together, he brought them just under his chin, thinking over the science of the drug in his mind. If he would not allow himself the pleasure of obtaining and studying the experimental drug his friend had been continuously dosed with, he would attempt to piece together how such a thing could come about in his own mind. This drug sounded miraculous, too good to be true for those who would wield it. There had to be something, a flaw, that would deem the drug unfit for continued distribution. He would figure it out and the drug would never be legally utilized by the greedy looking for a quick fix, whatever their current fix had settled on. This was what he could do.


	12. The Doctor-Part 1

John spent the first ten minutes of being conscious to try and find a way out of the handcuffs locking his right wrist to the bedpost. He spent the next five using such foul words at Sherlock that his friend left him to himself to avoid hearing it anymore. That was fine by him. He wanted to be alone. He didn't need Sherlock. At least, he didn't want Sherlock to think he was needed. The man got bored at many things. Getting bored with him was nothing new so he was glad when he finally succeeded in driving the man away.

He smirked quietly to himself at his accomplishment, mildly surprised Sherlock hadn't been able to pick up on all the signs of withdrawal. He'd broken out into a cold sweat, sleeping had been anything but easy when he woke and became aware the experimental drug had completely gone from his system, and an intense migraine kept him wide awake from then on. The stream of swearing used against his friend also told him irritation was a factor of withdrawal affecting him.

As a doctor, he knew what to possibly expect in the future and he knew a few he was already experiencing. Insomnia, check, sweating, check, palpitations, yep. From where he was trapped to a bed, far from the project's base of experimentation, he wouldn't be able to dose. He wanted to, badly. His rational mind was telling him dosing would be giving in and he'd truly be an addict. Oh but he wanted to. There were no drugs of his kind here though which left self-medicating of a different sort. He glanced about the room, eyes landing on the bedside drawer and storage shelf underneath.

John couldn't believe his incredible luck. Moriarty's safehouse bedroom had supplies. The drawer contained a couple of mystery novels and the storage shelf underneath contained drinking glasses and numerous bottles of hard liquor all in a row. The liquor was of the expensive variety and would certainly take the edge off of his growing urge to get a hold of the drug he'd been forced on in the first place.

He had to strain his arm, cuff digging into his wrist, but he was able to lean down far enough to latch onto the nearest bottle. The liquor was no real substitute for the drug he desired and so he dredged up negative thoughts of Sherlock to help him along. If Sherlock really cared he would have stayed in the room. If Sherlock was actually concerned for him he'd still be beside the bed instead of in the other room with their greatest enemy. Sherlock lied to him before, he was lying about something now. It made him feel better about drinking himself into oblivion, even though he knew full well his friend did not deserve such blame. How was he to know his friend had gone to bring him a remedy of a different sort?

When Sherlock returned to the room and unlocked the handcuffs, announcing he'd brought visitors and new clothes for John, his response was to lean forward and finish the rest of the bottle he'd been hiding under the sheets. Sherlock stared down at him in horror now, noticing the empty liquor bottles strewn about the bed for the first time. He snatched the almost empty bottle from John's hand which made him curse at a man only concerned for him.

Sherlock reached for him and he rolled out of the bed to avoid either a soothing touch or a reapplication of the handcuffs. Staggering to his feet, he focused his eyes as much as they would, and made it into the hallway. His estimation was off and he ended up crashing into the opposite wall. A giggle slipped from his mouth and he let himself slide down to the floor, forcing his head upright as he did.

He felt a little bad when he identified his pair of visitors looking every bit as worried as Sherlock had when they spotted him. Why was everyone so obsessed with his health? He was the trained medical one with actual field experience. He'd been under the control of a dangerous drug and was now free. He was drunk but he'd be sober again soon enough. John stared back at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson with glazed eyes while attempting to keep his head from bobbing sporadically.

"Oh, hello."

A wince followed immediately after the greeting. It had come out slurred, exposing his obvious drunken state. Mrs. Hudson looked shocked, Lestrade a bit confused followed by mild surprise.

"Damn it, John. This is your solution for being kept here?" Sherlock asked him. "This is absurd."

Drunk or not, John managed to still roll his eyes. "Not a solution. Not for that. Thought you would know being all," he waved his hands about in what was meant to be symbolic of one who was all-knowing. "Genius and brilliant."

Sherlock stared at him.

He didn't know why he said it. His mind just went there, the words blurting out before he could stop them.

"Maybe I'll just jump off a roof. That'll solve all my troubles."

John was far too inebriated to see the gleeful expression on Moriarty's face at his own cruel words. He failed to see Lestrade's look of horror or Mrs. Hudson's stunned and saddened gaze. He didn't recognize a disappointed stare from Moran or Sherlock actually looking angry at his friend's behavior. Maybe he did notice all of these things. His head was feeling fuzzy and he wondered how much he'd drunk to get rid of the urges. Maybe he was an idiot.

"The doctor was self-medicating, Sherlock. Surely you would see that if you weren't so concerned for how his heart feels. The one that fills up his empty little head."

"Enough from you, Moriarty."

"Oh, Sherlock, you-"

"Sherlock," he groaned out.

He'd be more than happy to let the two argue and battle with words as per usual, but his vision was spotting and darkening and he recognized the signs. He was going to pass out and since he was rapidly understanding he must have had far too much alcohol than he should have, he was uncertain if his body would continue to function. John slid the rest of the way to the floor and felt his body numbing, growing ever tired, and then as he thought, he passed out.

He wasn't sure how much time went by before becoming aware of himself again. John choked out liquid bile as his body revolted against the poison in his stomach. He felt himself turned to his side, somehow only now becoming aware he was soaking wet and rain was cascading down onto his face and chest. No, not rain, but water from a shower. Hands slapped against his cheeks and when he finally stopped regurgitating alcohol he managed to reach up to lock his arms around bony wrists.

A pale face leaned into his, forehead pressing to his own. He'd never been more relieved. He was alive and Sherlock was right here, taking care of _him_ for once.

"Sherrr..."

Damn. Still slurring. He'd sobered considerably from when he was in the hallway but not by much.

"Relax. Don't tire yourself trying to speak."

"On the contrary, speaking is precisely what I need him to do."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

John blinked away droplets of water, opening his eyes to stare into Sherlock's very gray looking eyes that bore into him, searching, unrelenting. When had Mycroft arrived? First Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's coming to the house, now Mycroft. So much for a secretive and secure place to hide.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft spoke the name in a warning tone.

"Not now," snapped Sherlock.

"I gave you twenty-four hours. Now is the time to get to the bottom of this. I must speak with John, a debriefing is required, no matter how much he desires to abuse himself."

"He didn't mean to drink so much."

"Yes I know. He drank copious amounts of alcohol in order to compensate for the extreme withdrawal afflicting him. Shall we move on? Perhaps John could do some explaining about who he's been working for and why he killed over a dozen people for MI6."

"You've been working for MI6?" questioned Sherlock.

John released a ragged breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in and pulled away from Sherlock, placing his back against the tile wall of the shower. He blinked under the brightness of the bathroom's lights and took in Mycroft's leaned pose at the room's doorway. Just beyond the finely dressed man's elbow he could see Lestrade consoling Mrs. Hudson. His fault, like a lot of things of late. Guilt filled him, the recent sickness and the alcohol running through his veins fading into the background of his awareness.

"Yeah," he managed to get out.

Sherlock actually smiled. "Cool."

He maybe would have smiled but Moriarty ruined that moment by drawling out a comment from the other room where Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade awaited.

"How drab. Such an ordinary man and a sad doctor who can't seem to stick to his limited profession."

The hell if John was going to let him say that while he sat wet and pathetic looking as he tried to sober up sitting in a shower with Sherlock. He felt low enough as is.

"At least I'm not the one who can't seem to stick to a sane mind, let alone a sane profession."

It surprised him when Moriarty sauntered up to stand just behind Mycroft at the door in order to snark right back at him. He didn't think the criminal would bother humoring his remark.

"Sarcasm is the recourse of a weak mind."

Sherlock leaned in close to John again. "This government business-far from dull."

John used that moment to look directly into his friend's eyes. He saw what he'd worried he'd see. Sherlock's eyes were shining. He was thinking about the puzzle inside, the thing there was to be solved.

"Come off it, Sherlock. I don't want to talk about this."

A hand closed around his own and he felt wet fabric slide against his shoulder as Sherlock shifted his position in order to sit next to him. His eyes remained on John and he slowly shook his head at him which was perplexing. A long moment they sat there in silence and John became astutely conscious of the fact that Sherlock was still holding his hand.

"Stop protecting me, John. I know this is what you are doing. I don't need you to. The deceit, the lies of omission, need to stop now."

That left him stewing quietly, gaze locked on to his knees. He didn't want to put any of them at risk. He didn't want to be in danger himself anymore. He wished he could maybe drink a bit more to forget about that drug his body was telling him he needed. There just didn't seem to be any upside to telling the truth.

"People are often fascinated with me but they rarely like me."

That was a strange thing for Sherlock to say. John kept himself staring at those knees. It was worth waiting to see what his friend was getting at.

"Most everyone who meets you likes you, John. I wish I had that."

His head jolted up to look at his friend. "No you don't. You hate people."

"And why do you think that is?"

He stared hard at the man. It dawned on him then, that Sherlock began to hate people because they hated _him_. They hated him for being the way he was, smarter than all of them and exposing things they'd rather not have said aloud. He squeezed Sherlock's hand once and returned his gaze to the elder Holmes.

///

"And when have your plans been successful one hundred percent?"

Sebastian sighed as he heard the doctor snap defensively at the brothers Holmes, concerning his decision to go undercover for MI6 in order to expose traitorous and self-interested employees within the government. If it had been his job to do, he would have simply executed the suspected parties and been done with it. No one alive, no one remaining to become future problems.

The day he became an adult in the eyes of the law, he joined the army and turned his back on a life he would much rather not remember. It was easy to do. He'd never had a real home, bouncing around from foster home to foster home. His parents were either dead or deadbeats and he didn't care to know. Not that he couldn't find out his birth parents identities if he wished to. Sebastian always knew how to find the things he needed.

"Fine. I never killed any of them."

Confused reactions from the pair of Holmes'.

"Not a one." John confirmed. "I drugged them, put them to sleep. They've been asleep all this time. I'll give you the address of the hospital where I placed them safely in a coma ward. Some of them are completely innocent, others you might like to lock up. I'll leave that to you, Mycroft. Have fun debriefing each and every one of them."

This time, even Sebastian looked to the doorway where John could partially be seen from behind Mycroft Holmes's tall form. He observed the way Moriarty looked along with everyone else and then consciously removed himself from the vicinity of the bathroom to return to a relaxed position on the sofa. Pretending not to care or concern himself with the government business conversation. It gave away that the consulting criminal was impressed and maybe even a tad intimidated. Nothing intimidated James Moriarty. No one ever got to him.

What Watson had accomplished was indeed impressive. For undergoing first time undercover work, he'd fooled those he needed to fool and hadn't drank the kool-aid, so to speak, until it was forcibly injected into his bloodstream. All of that while maintaining his honor and pursuing the mission end despite being kidnapped, his sister attacked, having Sherlock Holmes return improbably from the grave, and getting shot by a person unknown. He was really liking this John Watson fellow.

Sebastian himself was a man who saw things through, always. He also thought himself to be an honorable man, soldiering through his entire life. By no means was he cruel either. Now Moriarty _was_ cruel. He did work for a cruel man so he had done cruel things in the not so distant past. Except Moriarty wasn't always cruel.

He'd done his research on his current employer before accepting the offer of employment extended to him some years ago, and uncovered plenty. The absent father and the mother unwilling to deal with a genius son. No one understood Jim's mind and how it was wired to be brilliant and high-functioning. No one understood why from the day he was five, he wanted to continue stabbing the neighbor's puppy with a garden shovel. He told the two psychologists and three psychiatrists that his brain told him to do it because it would make him happy.

They came up with six different prescriptions to feed him, requesting permission for further testing, but the mother decided not to deal and ignored the brutal act her child committed. Age eight and a female classmate accused Jim of breaking her arm on the playground on purpose, laughing after he did it. A year later and a boy attending the same school as him died at the public pool. One person knew what truly happened to Carl Powers, but even not knowing the darker truths, the mom still didn't see why her son couldn't think like normal people. Again, the mother decided not to deal, the father was still gone, and a young Jim continued to find joy in hurting others.

Another year on and he was locked away in a mental institution for five years by his mother, when her disturbed son informed her he would slice her from ear to ear if she dared ever look at him like he was anything less than human again. It was in this place he decided to formally lend aid to others in situations such as his, where they had a problem and he could fix it. Problems like little Carl who liked to laugh at others. He fixed that and he could fix more things with a bit of financing and a cover to keep his past private.

Sebastian was no fool. He knew Moriarty had allowed him to find his past and it was a peculiar thing. Jim had decided to place his trust in the man he'd chosen to recruit as his personal bodyguard and right hand man. If his past was any indication, Jim had never trusted anyone before. Perhaps it was his consistent competency and ability to anticipate Jim's needs that made him a valued asset of his employer. A raised voice tuned him back in to the conversation at hand.

"You planned it? You knew about this, Mycroft? The CIA man and you took care of John's plan to protect the CEO target and had him put on the armored vest prior to the event."

"These people have names, Sherlock." Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock instantly disregarded the remark. "Irrelevant."

"Sherlock..." John began.

"I do find it relevant that you are clearly irritated with me, John, for pretending to be dead and for being less than truthful. Yet I have uncovered a disturbingly high number of lies or half-truths told by you to me, in the last week. You don't get to do this."

"Don't get to-Sherlock! I can't even imagine how you've reasoned this in your deluded mind-"

Sebastian tuned back out again. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson having yet another tiff was not something he needed to hear. The pair should get over themselves and just admit how clearly into each other they were. Some love-affirming sex would really do the two of them a lot of good.

His eyes went to Jim again as he positioned himself just behind his employer, along the far wall of the room. When he wasn't on a mission, his job was to shadow the man. Moriarty didn't feel he required constant supervision and protection but Sebastian didn't agree. Sure, taking out the spider instead of destroying the web first, might allow said web to dissolve into chaos without it. However, it was still easier to kill one man over an entire criminal network. So protecting Jim was what he spent much of his employment doing.

Time in the army had proven he was good at whatever he chose to do. But, his ability to do whatever it took to get the job done, such as killing and torturing, even in opposition of initial orders, wasn't what his superiors wanted. He got them results and he got dishonorably discharged for it.

He knew the difference between right and wrong, but he also understood that if he didn't get the job done, innocent people would die for nothing. During his time in the army and his time working freelance, he'd murdered and stolen and tortured. Did these acts make him a bad man? He didn't feel like a bad man. He did all of those things in the line of duty, to accomplish something.

Who was he fooling? Somewhere during the period he began working under James Moriarty, he'd become a very bad man so an insane man could continue to make himself feel good by distracting himself with human puppets. Sherlock Holmes was the first who managed to be seen as a worthy opponent that could be fun as well. He'd toyed with the older Holmes before, too, but found the highly intellectual government asset to be a bore. Where one of the Holmes' was involved, however, there was another man that usually was never too far. John Watson.

Now Watson on the other hand, was the first to get Sebastian's attention along with the attention of his fluctuating employer's extensive brain. Yes, John Watson had gotten his attention on more than one occasion. He was special because he was the only one Sebastian had ever seen bring out the young Jim who'd still bothered trying to find his soul.

John had been able to bring out the Moriarty on his good days, when he opted to do drab things like watching telly or spending the day in a shop or park, instead of planning yet another brilliant scheme or petty criminal acts to go with it. The fact that he wanted to see more of this Jim had to mean something for his own conscience, right? That he wasn't too far gone to come back from the edge of darkness Moriarty had brought him to.

"I wanted to be a part of something where I made a difference, where I meant something." John, apparently attempting to appeal to his friend for his actions of recent months.

"You did make a difference and you meant everything." That was Sherlock, sounding earnest. "You still do, even if you don't see it."

"Don't you mean _observe_?"

Sherlock laughed, a rumble that was deep and very much fake. The fighting started up again. Another minute and the consulting detective of the trio stormed out of the bathroom. Briefly his gaze flickered over Moriarty's comfortable state on the couch, then to Sebastian's own less than comfortable standing position in the shadows of the room. The younger Holmes brother cast his gaze downwards and then he was leaving the house, drawing a cigarette out of his pants pocket as he swept from the room. He didn't even bother to grab his long coat, which informed the professional hire that the detective consultant was distracted enough to forget it.

A couple of beats passed and then the cop and the land lady moved to go outside and join Sherlock. They'd become all but forgotten to him over the last ten minutes. He shifted his stance from left to right, no longer invested in remaining completely still. Mycroft and John were merely staring at each other in absolute silence. Sebastian noted this personally when he wandered over to one of the armchairs just across from the bathroom door and sat. When the talking did begin again, the voices spoke softly, but he heard every word anyway. He knew Jim could as well.

"Don't give me that look," uttered John.

Silence followed until John was speaking up once more.

"I can't get things to go back to the way they were. I can't. Sherlock's the same. Sherlock's always the same. And, well, he's right. I'm angry. I'm angry because I don't forgive him and he knows I don't. We know all this and I'm still angry. Why can't things be back the way they were?"

Further quiet but then the other man finally said something in return.

"The minute we love, the world has something to use against us."

The disappointment in such words was evident in John's voice. "Oh, much help, thanks."

"I will be taking over your work, John. MI6 and I are now cooperating to find Myra Jones and Dominic Parker. It appears they have fled the country in an effort to salvage what remains of their project. There's nothing more you can do here."

Mycroft Holmes swept out of the house, not unlike his younger sibling, leaving John in his miserable wet state as he waited to get truly sober. Alone and vulnerable and weak and they left him with two known criminals. He supposed they hadn't gone far though.

"The professor would let me keep going."

Sebastian glanced towards the bathroom. John was muttering to himself.

"He'd agree with me when I've gotten so close. Such bullshit..."

Hmm...Yes. Watson did interest him. Moriarty was peering with obvious interest of his own. His gaze was towards the room where John continued to sit, now silently. Why was this seemingly insignificant doctor able to draw his boss in with such ease?


	13. The Doctor-Part 2

John was feeling particularly annoyed. The obnoxious Holmes brothers had left him to himself. He'd like to think it was out of some sort of desire to allow him time to recover his composure and sobriety, but unfortunately he knew better. When a Holmes had something fascinating to focus their attention on, they did just that. Everything else faded into the recesses of their mind as irrelevant or inconsequential. He was used to garnering that kind of attention from either one of them, but it still bothered him.

He dragged himself out of the shower, soaked to the bone and wishing he'd shown just a tad more restraint in regards to the copious amounts of scotch he'd consumed. Scotch which he had proceeded to chase down with some expensive rum and then liquor he hadn't bothered to identify before drinking. That drug though, the power it had given him when in its purest form, had been like nothing else he'd ever experienced. When diluted and mixed with the control element, well, that had been a little less fun. But he still remembered what that initial power had felt like and he'd wanted it so badly for a while there. The want remained, the overwhelming need had faded. He was stronger than he gave himself credit for. He would be all right.

Grandly ignoring the pounding in his head, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his wet body. His pants were drenched and sticking uncomfortably to his legs, but he wasn't really in the mood to get more naked, especially knowing the safehouse contained only himself, Moriarty, and Moran at the moment. Large towel firmly wrapped around his body, he turned toward the door to consider whether or not to wait for Sherlock's return out there or in here, and practically jumped out of his skin.

"Hello Johnny."

The grin spread from ear to ear was anything but warming and comforting. His surprise at finding Jim Moriarty leaning against the bathroom doorway with such a look on his face, transitioned back to his previous expression. His look of annoyance and hurt feelings reclaimed him when he tried to appear nonchalant. He wouldn't have realized it himself if Moriarty hadn't felt the need to point it out in his own suave manner.

A suave manner which included a roll of the eyes and false reassurance. "Oh don't be like that. Your boyfriend will be along again shortly. He'd never leave you alone with bad ol' evil me for too long. He's already gone out of his way to warn me away from you."

Somehow his eyes found the floor when he muttered a retort. "Not my boyfriend."

"He's right you know."

John did look at him then. Moriarty's smile had lessened and his own expression had become a little more blank and a little less bitter over Sherlock.

"You should stay away from me."

He sounded like he meant it. His face was saying one thing but all the while he was snaking his hand along the countertop as he moseyed ever so casually over into John's standing space. A predator encroaching upon the territory of its prey. His captor resuming control over a past hostage? Hell no. Too much time had passed to let this bastard affect him so much. He had to get ahead of this before the other man solidified his clear power play over into the win column. John retreated into his knowledge.

"Psychopaths can't think on an emotional level. They manipulate and act for their own gain. You choose not to think on an emotional level at times, but not always. I guess you're not a psychopath..not always. You pretend."

Moriarty actually stuttered over the words he'd been about to speak and forgot them. James bloody Moriarty, losing his train of thought over something John had said. He congratulated himself in his head and smiled loosely at his enemy.

"Dr. Watson at your service. Ever forced to shrink the unshrinkable."

The other man arched an eyebrow in his direction. "You're not that kind of doctor."

John shrugged. "Every time I seem to think that, I end up dealing with another episode of Sherlock."

"I like you, John."

"Well isn't that a change."

"You really should stay far away from me. I've never cared for anyone in my life. Even if there is some kind of-" He motioned between John and himself. "Connection between us."

"Connection? Now I know enough to know you don't mean Sherlock but what, pray tell, could you possibly mean then?"

Apparently Moriarty had finished his attention to this mythical connection brought up, because in the next instant he was expressing his curiosity over what John had come to call his life of late. He wondered about John becoming a target, about who could have shot him those months ago, and about his mission to single-handedly take on the criminal underworld of London. All his words, not John's own.

John responded with a piss off, no way in hell there's a connection, and then shoved him out of the way when Jim teased him over bringing up the aforementioned connection again. Enemies that they were, though it was nice they weren't threatening or fighting each other, it didn't help them get along any better. Moriarty was still that very bad man, and John was still, well, ordinary and plain John.

Relief flooded him when Sherlock chose that moment to return, announcing that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had gone. John assumed his brother had left as well, though Sherlock did not bring him up. He wondered what had gone on between the siblings, however, as the slightly younger man was obviously in a foul mood.

"What is going on, John?"

So much for relaxing or having some small talk before getting to the deep and serious chatter. John glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of Moriarty returning to the sofa, Moran hovering in the background, keeping himself alongside the wall. He found himself going on guard automatically. He was willing to be truthful, but he didn't know how much Sherlock was willing to hear what he had to say.

"We often meet people on the worst days of their lives. I try to save people before the bad things happen. Instead of just picking up the pieces, and cleaning up after the criminal, I prevent the crime from ever having taken place. That was my intention anyway. That's what I've been trying to do while you've been pretending to be dead."

The slight concern in his eyes vanished when John let that last part slip out. Damn. He really hadn't meant to let the anger slip into his speech. John opened his mouth to apologize but any desire to keep on with the apology erased when Sherlock became cold and heartless, fast.

"Oh right. I left and made everything worse for you. How selfish of me. Snap out of the pity, John, the world can't stop just because you're unhappy."

John laughed, bitter and harsh sounding. "You think I don't know? Of course I realized when you supposedly "died", and the world kept on. What do you think I've been doing? Cause it stopped being all mopey and feeling sorry for myself after I saw the first young girl murdered for seeing too much of something no one will ever know."

The girl had been a witness to something she'd been too terrified to speak about. John had tried to keep her safe and see what he could do for her but the police detail on her had failed and she'd gotten killed. He'd failed a lot without Sherlock helping him out. Sherlock was the brilliant one. Sherlock was amazing.

"Yes, well, finding ever more destructive means to spend your days has clearly shown you moved on."

His expression darkened. Right now, Sherlock was being a prat. He was actually holding John's inability to cope with losing his friend against him.

"You sound like my therapist," he grumbled, then more loudly stated, "Looks like Moriarty won after all. London can keep you cause I sure as hell won't."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him and it bugged him to no end. Not more than the words the consulting detective had next to say.

"What's the deal with Moriarty anyway? Why is it you're not bothered by his presence here? I've been told victims are typically traumatized when forced to confront their assailant, kidnapper, torturer. Numerous medical studies seem to agree there is great pain associated with being forced into the same vicinity as the one responsible for their suffering. Why are you not fitting this description? You are acting unusual."

That was certainly cringeworthy. Why wasn't he scared to be in the same room as his former kidnapper and torturer? Why didn't he quake in his boots or wet himself? Why didn't he stab Moriarty in the heart or skull, the second he got the chance? This was what Sherlock chose to wonder about now of all times?

"What? I should be curled up in a corner feeling sorry for myself? Is that what you're thinking? I do that and you'd think it was stupid and oh so normal. Don't deny it. Besides, if you must know, what that man did..well it wasn't completely undeserved."

His friend looked like he might be sick. John pretended not to see it and continued his train of thought. He had to get it out. This had been running through his mind for far too long without ever being voiced. He had to say it out loud, make it real.

"In a way, it was justice. He got his point across. Don't murder me. I took it to be God punishing me. Murder is wrong and now I know for certain I'll never be tempted to make such a wrong choice as murder. I mean, when I was his captive, it's not exactly like I could take the moral high ground, could I? I was there to kill a man."

"He tortured you for days!" Sherlock yelled at him.

John responded in kind. "And you don't think making me believe you were dead would cause me more torment ten times what Moriarty could ever put me through?"

"Will you quit throwing that in my face? It was a necessary decision and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

He was feeling like a pretty large prat himself now. How sorry he was feeling over bringing the false suicide up must have been showing on his face, because Sherlock's expression was softening, too. Both expressions hardened a bit when a third party joined in to pass comment.

"Oh, get a room."

John looked at Moriarty. Was that jealousy he detected? Was Jim jealous over the attention Sherlock was giving him? Looking to play one of his games? He realized Sherlock was continuing to give him all that attention with those piercing eyes, and turned back to him.

"Right then..."

Sherlock was seeing right through him. He knew his defensiveness had done little to convince the other man that he didn't care. The other pair of men in the room were forgotten once again.

"When did you know I was faking?"

"It was a bit much with the whole I won't keep you part. I mean, what was that?"

John blushed but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"That and you said Moriarty won which you'd never admit out loud even if he had. Also, mentioning your therapist. You don't do that. And-"

"Alright, alright, I get it. I'm bloody terrible at lying."

His friend made a noise of agreement and it was really far too agreeable and quick. Time to bring his friend down to earth a bit and have an honest having it out with him.

"You know, you're absolutely right and completely wrong at the same time."

Sherlock was frowning at him now. "What do you mean?"

"There was some truth to it."

"John?"

"You saw your pain if you lost us. You didn't think about ours. What it would do to us after you died. You didn't think about all the good that you do, that wouldn't be done in a world without Sherlock Holmes."

"What? Not even a, 'happy you're not dead after all, Sherlock?'"

Sherlock trying to make light, not the time for that.

Moriarty piped up, the smirk obvious in his tone of voice alone. "Aww... Domestic troubles?"

John ignored him. Sherlock glared, then ignored him, too.

"You're a selfish bastard. Sometimes you really are a sociopath like they all say. That day when you fell, or pretended, or whatever!" He yelled that last bit when it appeared Sherlock was on the verge of saying something, possibly correcting him. "You didn't care, Sherlock. You cared nothing for what your death would do to the people left behind."

"I faked my death so that you would be protected. I did it so you would be safe!"

"You did it for you! Don't spin this into being my fault. You thought about how you didn't want to live without me, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade. And you died, or well, pretended to be dead, so you wouldn't have to face losing us. It was selfish, Sherlock. Any normal person can see that. Any normal person, should see that."

Sherlock defended himself exactly how John knew he would.

"It..was the only move to make, that made sense. Moriarty made it clear, I die, or the people I cared most for, would. I thought he'd actually done himself in. He had people ready to move on you all, without his cancellation of the hits, I had no other option but to have them observe a jump."

John scoffed. "That's rubbish."

"That's fact," retorted Sherlock calmly. "I had to die that day."

The anger surged again. "But you didn't!"

"Because I couldn't bear to leave you, John!"

For the first time he is silenced. Because of the tone, the pure emotion in his voice.

"I knew I needed to convince Moriarty's men that I had killed myself. I also knew I couldn't resurface until I was certain they were no longer out there, under orders should I turn up alive. I didn't know he was alive, I didn't know, still don't know if the kill orders have been retracted. I was terrified if I revealed myself too soon, you would all be made to pay the price. What I did know, was that you were hurting, I had caused that hurt, and I needed to fix it. I couldn't stay away any longer because I missed you too much."

"Sherlock..."

"You changed my life, John Watson. And I didn't ever want to remain in a life, that you were not."

"Oh you brilliant bastard. You choose now to miraculously become a silvertongue."

Sherlock didn't often voice his emotions but when he did, he did do it oh so grandly. Profound words, that was what Sherlock was managing to get out to him in this moment. Oh sheesh, and his friend wasn't finished.

"You think you don't matter, but you do. You saved me, John, from my miserable existence. You listen to me, you actually want to be around me for longer than five minutes, and God knows how you manage to put up with the likes of me while remaining sane."

John crossed the distance between them and embraced Sherlock tightly. "I missed you too, buddy."

Sherlock pulled back to give him a look, one that John considered could be trying to tell him they were most definitely not "buddies". But then the more rigid and uptight man was returning the hug, deeply. They stayed like that, holding one another and being so happy to be together and alive and safe, until the sound of a throat being cleared broke through the bubble they'd built up around just themselves.

How they managed to keep blocking James Moriarty out was a wonder. This time it might be a tad more difficult. He'd chosen to creep up to stand right beside them both.

"Oh, the pair of you, just darling. The great Sherlock Holmes, lost without his Watson, his moral compass and fierce protector. Well, the protector bit could use some working on."

A blush bloomed fresh across his face when upon conclusion of those words, Moriarty scanned him up and down. It was a very blunt reminder that he wore wet pants, a towel, and nothing else. He was embarrassed and feeling very small suddenly. The private moment between Sherlock and himself hadn't been very private.

But damn if Sherlock couldn't make it better. John watched as Sherlock reached into his coat and removed a lighter. It was a very expensive lighter with embroidered initials _MH_. Handing it to John, he smiled proudly, which caused John to smile broadly himself.

"Mycroft was being a ponce."

It was John's first real smile in a long time and it felt good. Tossing the lighter back to Sherlock, he put his hands in the air ever so innocently.

"You keep it. When Mycroft inevitably comes searching for it, I'd rather not be the one caught with it."

"Coward," teased Sherlock.

"Thief." John playfully retorted.

Moriarty's noise of disgust was ignored by them both. John might still be angry about what Sherlock had done, but this was a step in the right direction. Honest feelings and thoughts being spoken between them, that was a rarity. Maybe things could go back to the way they were.

///

The safehouse decidedly became unnecessary with the information that the British government was busy running down those responsible for the highly unethical and mostly illegal project group, and said group was occupied being on the run. John returned to 221b, Sherlock helping him move the rest of his belongings from his second apartment. The extra helpful, new and improved Sherlock wasn't long for this world. It took approximately 48 hours and an introduction of a case from Lestrade for Sherlock to return to being who he was, Sherlock Holmes.

John figured it was high time he do the same, and find his old self once again. Despite everything that had happened, he still remained with old responsibilities. He was a doctor who saw patients and had a boss he'd been neglecting a tad much. Giving Sarah Sawyer a ring, he got himself back in her good graces and got himself a new schedule that he swore he would follow and not neglect like he'd been doing for quite some time. Certainly this meant Sherlock would not have him on his cases all of the time. He wouldn't do that to Sarah.

Sherlock was not so understanding about his newfound desire to no longer forsake his duties as a medical professional. He especially was not so happy when John passed up working a case with him concerning victims, some dead, some alive, that had been forced to endure "experiments" where they were given a hard choice. Among the dead, the man always signed his work as _The Professor_. A professor who enjoyed experimenting with unwilling participants in the name of research. It was certainly interesting, but ultimately would be incredibly time-consuming, and he knew Sherlock would be fine on his own.

He wanted to go, too, which made Sherlock's prodding for him to continue joining him on cases all the more difficult to pass up. John had other responsibilities now that he was no longer going to abuse attendance like he'd done in the past. As a doctor, his patients deserved better. And he'd made friends with Mary, good friends. He didn't want to lose that because he had Sherlock and Lestrade back in his life with cases that drew him in.

The argument over this was inevitable, and a week after leaving the safehouse and finding themselves, for the most part, returned to their old lives once again, led straight to it.

"You don't need a job. You work cases with me."

"I've gotta pay the bills, groceries, and all that." John had tried to explain. "Plus, it makes me feel useful."

"I need you." Sherlock had practically demanded of him.

"You're overqualified to be some doctor in a clinic. You belong at my side."

John completely missed the sentimentality behind some of what his good friend was saying. That tended to happen when the fury was increasing and the kind words were mixed with demands and obvious jealousy.

"Oh but not qualified enough to run madly through the streets of London chasing down criminals barehanded without telling his supposed partner."

"That has yet to occur."

"Yeah, yet to since you jumped off a roof in front of me."

"Oh, change the record."

"Just waiting on you!"

Total silence had followed that outcry from John and he could tell Sherlock was contemplating the possible meanings of that statement. Whether or not he'd figured anything out was beyond John, because Sherlock's response was simple and brief.

"I see."

John wasn't sure what Sherlock was "seeing" there and suddenly he found himself as confused as he now suspected his flatmate to be. The staredown ended when John let his frustration get the better of him. He rolled his eyes, straightened his stance, and turned on his heel to go out the front door of their flat. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to see those bright intelligent eyes figuring out what he didn't even quite know himself. He had to leave, clear his head.

Upon stepping foot outside, his first thought was to go to Mary. Quickly making his way down the street, he debated whether dropping in or giving her a ring was the best call. She lived a ways away and he'd need a cab so there was time to consider which option was best. John recalled she was at work tonight. Well that was inconvenient. He didn't want to be a bother and interrupt her evening when she had work. Thoughts of Mary and her adorable dog were what was on his mind when the sleek black car pulled up alongside him.

"Dr. Watson, fancy a ride?"

He knew that voice all right and he just knew it was not going to be his night. Taking a very brief moment to consider, he threw caution to the wind and resolved to face the man in the car offering him a lift, by providing a counter offer.

"Mr. Moriarty, fancy a drink?"


	14. The Soldier

A drink with Moriarty was of course a situation that put him in a far too fancy place for his current dress, a private booth, and an endless line of drinks that he did not discourage from continuing. All the while, he was aware of his company sitting across from him, quietly watching him down drink after drink. Maybe an hour passed before the other man chose to finally speak as to how they came to be where they were, together.

"Boyfriend kick you out?"

John refrained from rolling his eyes, mumbling, "Not my boyfriend."

An amused smile was what he got from his companion. Looking him up and down, Moriarty signaled to a waiter for another round of drinks for the table. Then he went back to staring John down until he found he would really rather not have this particular man studying him so intently. A little honesty wouldn't harm him, right?

"Sherlock's on a case."

"Ah, too busy for you, is he?"

"Erm..yeah."

Moriarty looked at him. "Not quite right. Okay... Ah!"

He nearly jumped out of his seat from the sudden raised voice. He hadn't been expecting that. As cool as possible, he regained his composure and pasted an annoyed look upon his face while Moriarty went on.

"Disagreeing with you. Being difficult. Being Sherlock."

"Shut it. You don't know him."

"Oh but I do."

John decided stewing silently was the best course of action here. James Moriarty was going to think what James Moriarty wanted to think. Even if he disagreed whole-heartedly with what the man had to say, telling him so was doubtful to change his mind. Instead of responding with words, he took a long drink of the far too expensive whiskey he'd been downing for the past hour. On an empty stomach, not tracking his drinks, and being in the presence of Moriarty, weren't the actions of a smart man. More like the devil may care attitude of the military self in him. Good thing he'd already made up his mind that tonight would be a night he wasn't going to be caring about much of anything.

"You don't know him."

Oh, so he'd said something about it after all. Dumbly repeating the same words he'd said before wasn't too intelligent either. He decided not to leave it at that and added a bit more.

"Sherlock's on a case. A serial killer. There will be no reasoning with him until it's done. It's like he's wearing blinders."

He could tell Moriarty was surprised. It made sense. He was choosing to confide in an insane criminal mastermind of all people. His list of people to go to wasn't high. Mary, definitely, but she was working. Sherlock, of course not. Besides, Sherlock was the problem at the moment. Lestrade, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, Professor Kingston, and his sister, were all people he considered friends but he didn't want to bother them with his complaints. His sister had bigger problems right now trying to get over her near death experience at the hands of some psycho who thought it funny to force feed her alcohol anyway.

"Isn't that delightful. Now we can spend some quality time together."

John chortled under his breath. He pointed at the man across from him, then turned his finger on himself. He only became aware the laughter was coming from him when Moriarty began to frown.

The drink was tugged from his sadly weak grip and his protests concerning the removal of his beverage, emerged just as weak. He was being stood up, Moran appearing at his side soundlessly. He might have been impressed if he hadn't been so very intoxicated. He also may have chosen to protest as he was led into a car, Moriarty coming to sit beside him, and Moran across, when the drive didn't take him back to Baker Street. But he didn't.

It was easier not to fight or disagree. He'd been doing a lot of fighting and struggling these past few years, when Sherlock went away, and even when he returned. He thought when he'd left the army, he'd left the fighting behind. It was an incorrect belief and he had actually been kind of glad about that. Fighting was something he was good at when he put his mind to it. That being said, if he could have a single night not worrying about anything, about Sherlock or the project he'd been removed from, it would be a good night indeed.

The thought crossed his mind that Moriarty might have ill intentions towards him. He considered that he may be in a dangerous situation, seated in the car with a criminal and his bulky comrade. His head started to spin at all the thoughts running through his mind and he decided too much thinking was not good for the copious amounts of liquor sitting in his belly. He stopped the thought-process and lay his head against the car window.

When the vehicle came to a stop, Moriarty leaned in close. "This hotel should do for the night, hm? A night away from your normal life?"

John mumbled in agreement and stepped out of the car when Moran got out, opening the door for him. After making certain John could handle the walk to the building's entrance, Moran got back into the car, this time in the front, leaving him standing on the sidewalk with Moriarty. He glanced in the slightly taller man's direction.

"What are you playing at?"

Moriarty looked at him innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do."

"Shall we go inside?"

He sighed and headed into the hotel. Why argue? He was getting what he wanted, right? A place free of the stress of his life. A place where he wouldn't have to think about his attempt to help people on his own not ending so well. The recent events that pitted him against his friends and took away his free will. What a nightmare. He was really going to have to reconsider his use of alcohol as the cure to his cravings for the drug and for forgetting though. It had brought him to the interior of a hotel with James Moriarty.

The other man walked past the front desk without bothering to check in. The man at the desk nodded in the finely dressed man's direction and then went back to staring at his computer screen. Once again he found himself doubting his choice to come to this place with Moriarty. What was he doing here?

Together they rode the lift up to the third floor and damn if he didn't almost freak out in that moment. He was remembering his time in the man beside him's captivity. It had been a hotel similar to the one they were in now, and it had been hell. What was he doing? The next five minutes he spent hyperventilating on the floor of the lift.

An arm moved around his shoulders and tugged him against cool fabric. There was soft cooing in his ear and a hand slipped into one of his own. This was the reason his little panic attack lasted mere minutes. Now that was a mind fuck. His former captor and rapist was capable of comforting him as well.

John stood himself up and Moriarty moved along with him. He slipped his hand out of the gentle grasp and shrugged the other arm off his shoulder. He looked at Moriarty, hard. The lift had stopped and the doors stood open and waiting for them to step out.

"What are you doing? What do you want from me? Is this another game for Sherlock?"

"Let's forget about Sherlock." Moriarty told him and got out of the lift.

Well that was easier said than done. His whole life had essentially come to revolve around Sherlock since his exit from the military. He didn't know what the consulting criminal was up to but he didn't want to play any games. He took most everything very seriously. Blame his experience with death, pain, and tragedy but it was how he was.

"Let's talk about how I want nothing more than to collapse in a pathetic heap before I toss up the whiskey you let me drink."

Moriarty smiled. "Okay. Or instead of talking about it we could simply get you to bed before you pass out in the hallway."

John nodded his head once, briskly. "Right."

/

When he next came to awareness, Moriarty was sitting on the other side of the bed he was lying on, a novel in hand, sunlight streaming in through the window of the room. A book which he closed upon noticing John was awake and looking at him. A moment of quiet passed between them and then the younger man was leaning in as John put himself into a partially upright position.

"You shouldn't get too close to me, Johnny." Jim said to him in a low voice. "Demons don't make good company."

He couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. "You brought me here. You sought me out. Surely there's a reason."

"There's always reason. But reason can be so dreadfully boring."

John rolled his eyes at the non-answer. It wasn't surprising to not get answers out of a person like Moriarty, just irritating. His retort stuck in his throat when he observed the intensity of the other man's gaze on him.

"You feel it, don't you?"

He pretended not to understand. "What?"

"Nothing." Moriarty looked away and he could see the uncertainty and hesitation in such a move.

He felt it all right. Something he hadn't wanted to admit as he'd learned some of what made up the real man underneath the perfectly planned and executed mannerisms of the criminal mastermind, during his time as a prisoner in a different hotel room, half a year past. Though the sex had been against his will, as had the violence, the rest had been..okay. He'd seen some of what was the man behind the monster, even beginning to develop feelings of a sort. Sympathy, understanding, and rationalizing of the man's actions. Moriarty was right. Reasons meant nothing sometimes.

"I guess I should go then. Get back before-Oh who am I kidding? He probably never noticed I didn't come back."

"He'll think you were with Mary. He won't suspect a thing."

John frowned at Moriarty, not at all shocked he knew about Mary when he'd hardly told Sherlock anything about her, but rather confused instead. "Why would that matter if he suspected anything? There's nothing going on-"

His words were smothered by warm lips against his. It took him a long moment to register what was happening. By the time he did think that maybe he should push back or pull free, Moriarty broke the kiss and slid off of the bed.

"A cab is waiting downstairs. It will take you wherever you wish to go and is already paid for. I thank you for your company, Dr. Watson."

"What are you playing at?"

Moriarty grabbed up his jacket and cast a final smile in John's direction before leaving the hotel room, John's question dangling in the air.

///

He'd been trained to pick up tails. This one wasn't even trying to go unnoticed. Two days since his evening with Moriarty and he had spent those days working the clinic for Sarah. The paycheck had yet to clear, however, and so with only loose change in his pocket, he'd had no choice but to walk home. Today was one of his bad days for his leg, though, so the walk was rather unpleasant without his cane to aid him.

His depression following Sherlock's supposed death, he hadn't worked much. The savings dried up pretty quick and he refused any money from the likes of Mycroft Holmes. The number of shifts he'd missed while working undercover for the NSA did not help his cause either, yet somehow the major bills got paid. He'd assumed the eldest Holmes brother had put the money down, regardless of his insistence at how much he didn't want it to happen, yet now he wondered if he'd been wrong.

When the black car pulled up alongside him, he knew it wasn't Mycroft. The man was thankfully far too busy occupying his time with figuring out the details of the sanctioned government project John had exposed as corrupt and far from legal, to be paying him visits. Why Moriarty was spending his days sporadically tracking John down, he didn't know.

The car door opened and a beaming Moriarty was waiting for him inside. He climbed into the back, relieved for the opportunity to take pressure off of his throbbing limb. He looked at Moriarty as he ordered the driver to John's address.

"What gives?"

The smile spread wider. "I thought you could use a ride."

"Mr. Moriarty, have you been spying on me?"

A minuscule shrug and then he was turning towards John in the seat. "I'll be leaving town for a few days, maybe a week. Thought it would be appropriate of me to say goodbye."

"Not necessary." John muttered.

Moriarty leaned in. "What was that?"

He gestured back and forth between the two of them. "We're not friends. We don't even like each other. What is this?"

A quick peck on his lips and then he found they'd arrived at 221b Baker Street, John too startled to remove himself from the car right away. A hand patted him on the thigh, a reminder that he was still in the car and was still very much beside Moriarty.

"Absolutely right, Johnny-boy. We're not friends. There is a thing between us that I can't shake. You know, you should really keep away from me."

John's mouth gaped a bit, and then he forced himself to reorient and open the door to get out of the car. Before he could step out, Moriarty pulled him back towards him and planted another kiss on him.

"See you in a week, Johnny."

"It's John," he grumbled, and got out of the car.

Moriarty smiled brightly and waved exaggeratedly at him until John shut the door in his face. This guy was insane. What did he think he was doing, associating with James Moriarty?

///

Exactly one week later, John was taking a cab home from Mary's when it instead took him to a part of Cardiff he'd been to before with his dear friend. Confused as to why he was not on Baker Street after his day spent with Mary, he shifted forward to tap at the cabbie's window. Before he could, the man twisted partially in his seat.

"No charge."

"What? Why?"

"Compliments of Mr. Moriarty, sir."

John's brow furrowed and he glanced out the window beside him. That was when he noticed the man waiting for him on the sidewalk outside of one of the restaurants. It was a good thing he always dressed up when he went to see Mary, for this was definitely a respectable and posh establishment.

Getting out of the cab, he regarded the man loitering outside the stone building with something akin to curiosity. "Does everything have to be a show with you?"

A small smile flitted across Moriarty's face. "Can you fault me for trying to impress?"

"Why would you want to impress someone ordinary like me?"

He instinctively reached for his gun but the weapon was at home. Sherlock had borrowed it three nights back and had yet to return it. His reaction hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Ever the soldier." Moriarty observed with a smirk. "Dinner. Then we can talk."

/

No idea how it happened but dinner became drinks and then a hotel room. The hotel room consisted of sex, more drinks, and more sex. When they were both sweaty and tired and lying flat on their backs in the bed, John avoided looking at the other man. He had no semblance of coherent thought as to how the heck he'd wound up in bed with his enemy and former torturer. He hadn't exactly hated it either. That tasted somewhat bitter going down.

Moriarty began giggling next to him on the bed. If John wasn't already having second thoughts about this whole sleeping with the enemy predicament, he certainly was now. He sat up in the bed and looked at the other.

"What?"

The criminal poked John in the side. "I'm touching you."

"Um..Yeah you did quite a bit of that earlier."

He giggled again for reasons John couldn't fathom, and he confirmed that this had been a very bad idea. Sitting up completely, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched the floor for his clothes. Moriarty sat up on the bed and watched him as he slid on his pants and then moved a few more steps to pick up his trousers.

John cleared his throat. "You know, I really shouldn't be doing this. What you did to Sherlock..."

At the mention of Sherlock, Moriarty's face twisted up in annoyance. "This has nothing to do with Sherlock. You really need to spend less time with that ninny."

"Well then what you did to me or all those innocent-"

Moriarty cut him off by snaking a hand onto the rim of his pants, tugging him back onto the bed, and kissing him breathless. Well, there was no way he felt something for the other man, no way. Nothing wrong with good sex though. Nothing wrong with enjoying the moment. He dominated the kiss and rolled them so he was on top. Staring down at Moriarty, he smiled.

"You're a mystery, James Moriarty. I'm going to get to the bottom of what you're up to."

The other man grinned up at him, smile spread from ear to ear. "You're a puzzle, John Watson. One I desire to explore."

"This is just sex." John warned, making sure the criminal wasn't getting any funny ideas about some sort of bond forming that meant he'd do crimes with him or something along those lines of insanity.

"You never know."

John frowned slightly. "Not going to happen, Jim."

This amused the man beneath him greatly. "Oh, you never can tell."

Before he could question that, Moriarty had reversed their positions and John now found himself under the other man. Leaning down, Moriarty murmured how badly John should stay away from him, then resumed kissing him. This left him feeling utterly confused and uncertain. He'd never thought himself interested in men sexually but he was thoroughly enjoying Moriarty's ministrations. And it hit him right in that moment, with Moriarty kissing down his neck and chest, who he wished was there instead. How he'd never realized it before was beyond him. Boy was he a mess.

When they were done rolling about in the sheets, John dressed and left in a hurry. Moriarty had watched him go, expression impossible to read, and then John was breathing fresh air again. He inhaled a couple of times before taking off down the sidewalk, pace fast. He'd no idea what had just happened here but he was certain he wanted to be home now.

///

Over the next two months, Moriarty sent texts to John with the hotel or restaurant he wanted him to meet him at. Despite the warning in his mind, he went, got some good sex out of it, then went straight back to the flat once they were done. He never spent the night, not since that first time, and he convinced himself it was okay because it was only a way to find company, comfort, in a time when Sherlock was occupied with a serial kidnapper, murderer, and all around bad guy.

Despite John's primary dedication to the clinic, he still occasionally went off with Sherlock to investigate a crime, especially when it came to this "professor" fellow. He sounded like a very sick man intent on experimenting with poor, unsuspecting people. The trouble with this guy, was that he was smart, never leaving a trace of himself behind, and the police had no leads to follow. Sherlock could not even do much and it was making a cranky man out of him and his flatmate who had to deal with an unsuccessful sleuth. It was a bonus then, that he had Moriarty to sneak off to and see on occasion. And of course, there was always lovely Mary, ever the good friend willing to hear him out whenever he needed to talk.

There was that thing about troubles though. Just because John chose to put the past behind him and move on with his life, searching for distractions where they could be had, it didn't mean the past stopped being any less real. Troubles were better left forgotten, but sometimes, that very act of forgetting left a person vulnerable for those same troubles to come roaring right back to the forefront.


	15. The Angel

He was a man of simple pleasures. Fine wine, exquisite food, a good film or a good read, he enjoyed it all. There was that other side of him, the more complicated one. The dark side of him that gave orders to end a person's life, steal a man's life savings, or destroy a woman's reputation. The part of him that gained pleasure from the suffering of others, that sometimes scratched the itch of that whisper in his mind telling him he would feel better if he just stabbed that grinning teenage boy walking by right in the eye.

Then there was the man he continued to seek attentions from. The man he kept warning to keep away before that itch came back and he did something bad again. But he wasn't used to being kept from what he wanted, and so it was he who kept pursuing the other. He was facing that very man at the moment, smiling his most charming smile and utterly wrapping the befuddled man around his finger with his aggressive flirting.

"You told me it was a bad idea."

The doctor was trying to talk himself out of sleeping with Moriarty yet again, to the man himself, on the car ride over to Jim's rented flat. Why this man thought it could possibly work? John was sweet and innocent. John was a do-gooder. Honestly, Jim was surprised actual wings hadn't sprouted out of the man's shoulder blades yet.

"Well, I like bad things, being a master criminal. I'm a bad guy. A criminal mastermind of the worst sort or so they say."

It was John's turn to regard him with a smidge of derision. "Well, you do kill indiscriminately."

"Isn't that better?"

"Not really. No."

Jim decided now was a good time to pout. He pouted, effortlessly. It was genuine. John wasn't agreeing with him and it was upsetting. The man upsetting him added more to..perhaps try to appease him? He liked to think so.

"I mean, children, Jim?"

Ooh, he had an answer for that. "I don't actually do most of the crimes you know. I just show people how."

John sighed. "Yeah, not better."

He was contemplating now. He admired John Watson, respected him. The feelings he'd started with had evolved. He liked where this was going.

"Alright. I'll do better."

"What?" he startled.

Jim placed his hand on John's thigh and leaned in close, lips brushing alongside a soft cheek. "We're good together, John. You're going to love me one day."

The other man immediately scoffed at such a claim. "It's never gonna happen."

"We'll see."

There was a certainty in his voice that his person of interest didn't seem to like. He was pulling back. Jim wasn't going to have any of that. On his own terms was fine, however, so he pecked a quick kiss on the cheek his lips hovered over, then pulled away himself.

"John."

"What?"

"It's great sex."

John glanced sideways at him. "It's good, yeah. Doesn't make it more than that."

"It's _great_ sex."

The other was grinning now. Yes, mission accomplished. He was his for the night. Jim looked out the window just as a passerby walked by and he took note of what hadn't crossed his mind. Homicidal thoughts. He had fewer and fewer of those thoughts. A curious thing. Peculiar. He looked over to John.

"How do you do that?"

A slight frown creased his forehead and Jim wanted to reach over and smooth those lines until they were gone. Sheesh, what the hell was wrong with him?

"Do what?" John questioned him.

Jim locked eyes before voicing his wonder. "Make people care."

John didn't understand and looked confused. It didn't matter. The night went on and it was a good night. In the morning, he woke to a pleasant sight. John was there. He was asleep, face sunk into a pillow and an arm slung over Jim's chest. He'd stayed. That was progress. He smiled, feeling like he was glowing inside. That was a first, too.

///

John stared daggers at the detective inspector standing across from him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing from these supposed professionals. They were nowhere on identifying his sister's attacker. He was tempted, tempted to go to another man who would get the job done and get it done promptly. Would this man help him if he asked? There was a high probability that he wouldn't.

He wasn't even quite certain what was going on between him and Moriarty at the moment. They spent a fair bit of time together, often those times included getting off, but that didn't mean anything. Moriarty was still Moriarty, so there was no way John would ever let himself see the man as more than just good company in a lonely time of his life. Besides, the other was obviously using him in the same way, and maybe even as a way to use him against Sherlock at some point. That wouldn't surprise him at all. Moriarty didn't mean what he'd said about them having more between them that could become something. That was just bullshit designed to mess with his head.

"Dr. Watson, we're doing what we can but as you well know, there is no shortage of crime in London and we have other cases that require our attention."

"Why isn't Lestrade lead on this? I requested him a month ago when you weren't getting anything done."

"You know the answer. You're friends with the man. He is devoting the majority of his time to the Professor cases."

"Right. Criminal mastermind and serial killer who kidnaps victims and forces them to make some sort of hard choice. Some die, some live, but the living are definitely left traumatized the rest of their lives." He was aware his voice had been rising in volume as he carried on but he failed to care much about that. "I know who he is! Sherlock Holmes is my flatmate!"

"Then you should doubly understand how vital it is we catch this criminal before he strikes again."

John's head was getting hotter. These cops were all idiots. The only ones competent enough to help him, wouldn't even help him because they were too busy with the big case. Then he made a possible connection in his head and it was as though a light went on in his brain.

"What if my sister's attacker _is_ this Professor fellow?"

"What? What makes you think that?"

"Well a man broke into her house, held her against her will, and forced alcohol on her until she nearly died. That sounds like him!"

"Dr. Watson," His tone was condescending, causing John's expression to darken further. "There was no actual evidence of an assailant in your sister's case. We don't know for certain she was even attacked."

"You think she was lying?" he demanded.

The detective had the tenacity to smile falsely at him and lean forward over his desk. "Your sister is an alcoholic, Dr. Watson. We will not waste valuable resources on a woman who repeatedly harms herself."

"You daft tosser!"

He started to lunge over the man's desk but was stopped by an arm suddenly appearing in front of him, wrapping around him and pulling him backwards. It distracted him for a moment before he made a second attempt to rip the man's head from his neck. This man was an arsehole and he deserved a good wallop to the brain he clearly wasn't using.

"He's a bloody pillock! Arsehole!"

"You must have evidence, facts to back you up," the voice belonging to the man holding him in place informed him. "Only then can the detective act on your claim. That being said," He turned on the cop. "You're a git. Lestrade's taking over the Watson case. Piss off."

Well, that was satisfying to hear. But still, he wasn't in a good mood. He didn't want to deal with Sherlock if he was going to act distracted or disinterested whenever the case ceased to suit his fancy. He needed his friend at the very least right now, and with Sherlock, it was never clear if that was what he would get. Even in his predictability, he could be unpredictable at times.

"John."

He forced himself to regain control of himself and turn to his friend. "Go away, Sherlock. You don't even care about this."

"I do. That's why I'm here."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I went back to your sister's house for another look-around."

He straightened himself up, noting Lestrade and Donovan were watching from a few yards away. A few breaths and then he asked him what he'd found.

"A recording. The thing is, I don't believe it was there before. I believe the Professor came back and placed it to be found."

John stared. "Wait, you think it was the Professor criminal, too?"

Sherlock extended a gloved hand where a small tape recorder was clasped. He hit the play button. There was some static and then a man's voice came on.

_"Some experts believe too much of something can actually cure a person of an addiction. Want a smoker to quit? Give them pack after pack until they nearly die of nicotine poisoning. A heroin addict? The same. As for you, your addiction of choice is alcohol. Let's test that theory, shall we?"_

There was sobbing, his sister, then she was begging him to stop. The audible sound of a slap had John wincing. The man had hit her. He felt his anger level rising again. This man was now definitely the target of his desire to harm.

_"Take it gracefully, my dear. This will happen regardless. If you manage to survive this, be grateful it will be a shortened life, but a life led sober and clear-minded. That is a life much more valuable and worthy."_

The recording cut out and more static followed. Sherlock pressed the stop button and continued to stare at John, measuring his thought-process and emotion level. That piercing and focused look was annoying.

Sherlock was opening his mouth to say something but whatever was coming he would never know. A P.C. was jogging into the work area, out of breath, eyes wide. He ignored the questions directed his way and instead went over to the nearest television and switched it on, finally speaking to everyone in general.

"The Professor hit again. He left a message this time."

John moved along with nearly everyone else to get closer to the television as a reporter began to speak about the recent crime committed.

 _"Helen Young, reporting live outside the Bank of England, where a security guard and two bank employees lost their lives this afternoon."_ She gestured behind herself, glancing in the direction before returning her gaze to the camera. _"Shortly before taking his own life, the security guard was heard yelling about how he'd had no choice, a man had forced him to either kill the bank employees who'd allowed a minor robbery to take place two weeks earlier, or his own family would die. Bank officials claim no such robbery had taken place and that they have no idea why the guard chose to end two lives so tragically."_

He glanced at Sherlock, then some of the other cops watching, wondering what was going on with this criminal. His targets were seemingly random, yet there appeared to be some kind of flawed logic to his madness. This Professor knew where to strike, his timing impeccable. He wondered what this could mean about the man. He'd struck far too many times to be ignored, and most of the time it brought senseless death with it. What did this criminal seek to accomplish?

As though the reporter could read his mind, she revealed something that had him listening intently again.

_"What stands out about this specific crime, is that the criminal calling himself "the Professor", has marked this crime as his own in the form of a letter, which one of our investigators got a copy of and which I will read here."_

Lestrade cursing grabbed his attention for a brief moment. Other cops were looking pretty unhappy as well, muttering about how that letter was confidential evidence and not to be shared with the public. John didn't care about any of that. He wanted to hear what the letter said.

_"Alright, I'm going to be reading the letter now. 'The world has evolved into a place where people live under the illusion of safety. It is delusion really. Danger is everywhere. Death, inevitable. As sure as the sun will rise, one day, everybody dies. I seek to rid the people of their ignorance. I wish to show them a world filled with fear, chaos, and death because that is reality. Chaos is all-consuming. It will consume everyone. Compassion is a weakness, a trait enemies will not share. The heart does not require compassion to be strong, pure. We can all of us become pure of heart, worthy of existence. This is what I seek to do.' Signed, the Professor. So as you heard here-"_

John tuned out the rest of what the reporter had to say. He didn't need their analysis of the letter. They didn't know anything. He was better off using his mind to try to figure out what he knew. The guy was definitely crazy, yup, but in a very grounded manner if that made any sense. It was like he knew how the world worked but didn't think other people did, and he was trying to share the "truth" or whatever that meant.

It didn't matter what the insane criminal calling himself "the professor" believed. What mattered to John was that this man had made his sister one of his victims and apparently wanted the police, or Sherlock, to know it was his work. Why else would he leave a recorder with part of the attack back at the scene of the crime? This was a mess. He didn't really understand any of what was going on.

He looked over to Sherlock, wondering if the man had a better grasp at what was happening. Sometimes he wished his mind worked like his friend's because then, then maybe he wouldn't be so afraid of what this insane criminal was planning next. Would he continue to hurt people as he had been? Or would he step up his game and do something even more terrible?

///

"Why should I care, Johnny?"

He peered over his tea cup at the man seated across from him in the cafe.

"I don't expect you to. I just-I don't know, wanted to get it out. I tried talking to Sherlock, but it..it never goes anywhere."

Moriarty waved off that comment with a literal wave of his hand. "No, no, not about what you were just saying. I mean caring, about other people. I know that's what you wish I would do. You wish Sherlock would, too, if you're set on bringing him up."

John stared right at him. "Sherlock does care about other people. He's just awful at showing it."

"Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't see the point. I'm the same way. Why, would you care a thing about dysfunctional human beings like us?"

He gritted his teeth. Where was Moriarty going with this? Why did he have to talk to him about Sherlock? He'd rather not. He would really rather not.

"So tell me. Why should I care? Why is it so important to you?"

Of course the man had been able to pick up that he no longer wanted to talk about his friend. That was nice then that he'd ceased talking about him. It also meant Moriarty had taken into account how John felt. This was new and unfamiliar. James Moriarty giving a damn about his feelings? He kept his response simple and blunt.

"People care."

"Caring doesn't change anything. It's a weakness. Why should I care?"

He sighed tiredly. "That's what people do."

Moriarty stared at him blank, yet somehow meaningful, so John went on.

"That's what you can do. You're alone..." he remembered how well Moriarty dealt with being reminded about his weakness and added quickly, "Bored. Because you think yourself above everyone else, all those "normal" people. That is precisely what makes you like them. Pride is a very human thing. That's why you need to start caring about somebody, anybody. If you make yourself just a bit like regular..normal people, you'll be less bored. I guarantee it."

This brought a wolfish grin to Moriarty's face. "I like that. Sounds almost poetic. I told you you'd care about me."

"I don't."

Even as the words spilled out, he knew he'd replied far too quickly to be convincing. Wait, why was he questioning his own feelings? He didn't care about Moriarty in any way. Oh, God, the man was giving him the intense, I know what's going on in your head stare. It made his skin feel like it had heated up at least ten degrees.

"Well, well, John, I must say you've managed to impress me once again. You've made me utterly a fallible human."

John stared back at him, wondering if that was a good thing. He felt as though Jim could either be complimenting him and pleased, or else this was the predator smiling right before devouring its prey, and John was going to pay for whatever he'd done. He set the cup of tea down on the table, beginning to feel rather uncomfortable.

It surprised him then, when Moriarty reached over and placed his hand over the hand John had resting on top of the table. "You do make me care, John, and it's frustrating as you can believe. You make me want to stay alive."

John started. "What?"

"You just might be my guardian angel."

"Is that a joke?"

"Not at all."

He frowned down into his drink. He didn't know what Jim was saying. He didn't know what this was between them. It was supposed to be simple. Sex and company and nothing more. Why then, did Moriarty keep alluding to something else? What was this business about staying alive? Was this one big game with him as the piece to be jostled about until it was just right for the final strike, against Sherlock? His head was starting to hurt.

///

_Sherlock being gone was still fresh. He thought about his dear friend nearly every minute of every day and it was suffocating him. His thoughts nearly always occupied with his friend who jumped off a rooftop in front of him, he almost missed it. In fact, he saw it just in time. A man walking on the sidewalk ahead of him about to be hit by a swerving car, the driver likely intoxicated._

_He acted automatically, running to the man and shoving him forward and out of harm's way. The car skidded partially up onto the sidewalk, exactly where the man had been, and then swerved away, back onto the street properly. Already he could see other bystanders on their phones, calling in the reckless driver as they gawked at the erratic car speeding off._

_Shaking his head at the reckless behavior he'd just witnessed, and making a silent prayer that no one be hurt because of this driver, he straightened up and caught his breath. He then turned when he realized the man who'd nearly been made a pancake was approaching him. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, just a regular guy almost made dead by some idiot._

_"You saved my life."_

_"Ah, yeah, I guess. It was nothing. Stay safe."_

_He turned to go but stopped when the guy kept looking at him, like he had something he wanted to say. He waited a moment but the guy didn't say anything so he awkwardly said more himself._

_"People can be real gits. You never know what they might do."_

_John was speaking about more than just the situation they'd almost had a minute ago. He didn't need to transfer his problems on to a complete stranger though. Thankfully the man chose to speak next._

_"You must have a heart of gold to save a random soul such as mine."_

_"Uh.." That was a strange thing to say. "Well, you're welcome. It wasn't a big deal."_

_"You know, compassion is a weakness, a trait your enemies will not share."_

_"Oh. I suppose that's true..."_

_What was with this guy? He wanted to get out of this odd circumstance. He took a step past the man and smiled politely at him as he did._

_"You have a heart of gold I think. Such a heart is not necessarily pure. You want a pure heart, consider letting the concept of compassion go. Your heart will truly be strong then."_

_"Okay, thanks. I should be going. Be careful out there."_

_The man smiled at him now, his actually appearing genuine as opposed to John's rather sad excuse for an attempted smile. The situation just felt so..off somehow. He walked away, on down the sidewalk, and didn't look back. He had enough on his mind and some act of kindness on his part that had ended in weirdness, wasn't going to beat out his previous thoughts. He forgot all about that day..._

John woke with a gasp as he sat upright in the bed, breathing heavy but subdued. He kept his lips pressed tightly together until he centered himself. Hands sought him out and wrapped about him. John pressed himself into the embrace.

"Shit! Jim, I met the man. I met that Professor criminal."

"What? How do you know?"

"There was a man I ran into on a street in London once, a year or so ago. Saved him from getting hit by an idiot who didn't know how to drive straight. It feels so long in the past and only lasted a minute, maybe two, so I can't recall a face. But what he said to me, stayed with me. I just remembered it now from the letter he left at the last crime scene. Something that criminal said and something the man I met said. They said the same goddamn thing about compassion being a weakness. It was him! Shit..."

"If you don't have a memory of what he looks like, what good is it? Come on, let's get back to sleep."

Even as Jim was saying that, John was already pulling out of his arms and sliding out from under the sheets. He had to tell Sherlock and he told Moriarty as such.

"Sherlock needs to know."

"Your information has too many holes. It will mean nothing to such a factual creature such as him."

"I need to let him know what I can. He'll be awake. The bank shooting will keep him up all night. He should know I could possibly remember something else, maybe even identify this bastard."

John was in a hurry to get home. He didn't notice the disappointment and sadness flicker across Jim's face. He didn't see the jealousy or anger growing in his eyes. Most importantly of all, he forgot that Jim was James Moriarty. No one touched James Moriarty. No one made him care and then left him in favor of Sherlock Holmes and another one of his mysteries, either.


	16. The Hound

Sherlock Holmes did not understand what he was doing incorrectly. Day in and day out his mind was occupied with the latest Professor crimes among other cases. He scoured every crime scene, especially when it came to crimes committed by this Professor criminal, and ended up with next to nothing each time. The case was not going well. The criminal wasn't leaving much to be found and Sherlock was stumped.

He did not approve of being outsmarted. There was only one other man who'd come close to stumping him with his various crimes and games. He didn't like that man one bit. That man had forced him to jump off a rooftop and leave John alone for half a year, left their relationship from then on rocky and unpredictable. That man had hurt John, badly. That man had somehow managed to convince John to spend several nights a week with him, nearly every week, for the last two months.

No, Sherlock was not happy. There was no way his friend was safe in the company of that man. He also knew it was more than just chatting the two of them were doing and that did not sit well with him at all. John was his. Where did Moriarty get off deciding he could have John on what was likely a whim?

Sherlock winced. Bad choice of wording. He strongly suspected he may be spending time with the man because John was avoiding him at the flat. John became irritated with him exceptionally quick of late. He didn't trust him completely yet. Sherlock could see it in the manner he sometimes brewed his tea, the way he made sure not to even look at his flatmate even once while reading the paper, or how often he responded briefly, hesitantly, to something said to him.

Perhaps it was partially his fault, the wall building up between them ever since John's NSA work was discovered and halted. He knew John knew he wasn't being fully honest with him. Sherlock was keeping a secret, sure. He'd been working with Mycroft since the day John ended up in hospital from two gunshot wounds to the stomach. He was trying to get to the bottom of who had gone so far as to put a hit out on his friend. Extremely frustrating for him, no answers had been uncovered in that investigation either. The sole lead, the drugged up informant, had ended up back on the street somehow and when he was found again, he'd died of an overdose.

Nothing was going his way. John was keeping him at a distance, he was solving all of his cases except for the main one involving the Professor that he just couldn't get a handle on, and he didn't know where to go with John's case. Now his flatmate was spending his free time with Moriarty or the female friend Sherlock had never met. He went with Sherlock on a case occasionally, listened to him play his music by the window or when he had his admittedly childish tantrums, but he wasn't fully John. He had too many distractions to spend most of his time with Sherlock like he used to do.

So when John came through the front door at nearly three in the morning, excited and decidedly looking for him, his heart thudded more quickly in his chest. He paused in his composing of a new tune, centering around his own grief at the division growing between him and his flatmate, to provide ample attention to him. He wanted to make certain John understood he was trying, that he cared.

John let spill past his lips an explanation of a dream he'd had that night. He shared how he believed he'd met this Professor criminal a year ago and that maybe, just maybe, there was a slim possibility he would be able to identify him if the police came up with any suspects. Sherlock listened to everything he had to say, noting all the ways there were issues with his story; How identification wouldn't mean much without the addition of factual evidence, and the average ability for recall was extremely low. He observed all of these things but when John was finished and waiting to see what Sherlock had to say in response, he wisely chose to say none of that. Instead he asked John to describe what he could remember about the man and wrote everything down. He reveled in the eager to help look on John's face and the pair spent the rest of the morning discussing aspects of the Professor case.

///

He met Mary two days later for lunch. The renewed vigor he and Sherlock had experienced for the Professor case, ultimately, led nowhere. The criminal seemed to come out at random to initiate some sort of violent or cruel act. The man was sick in the head, no doubt about that. He was someone who apparently liked to experiment with people, forcing them into situations where they had to make a difficult choice. Harry had finally come clean and told him the whole story, about how the man had given her a choice. She could ingest as much alcohol as she could take, or Clara would.

Mary had been able to detect the tension in his voice when he called to see how she was doing. She'd invited him out to lunch on her work break and he came gladly. He needed the respite from mulling over thoughts of the psychopath who had dared to harm his sister. At least Harry survived her encounter with the killer, at the cost of a shortened life span, but still with a life. The young college student turned victim a month before her, had not been so lucky. She had been locked in a room with her little sister. Her sister had been given food and water while she had not. It was the offered choice. She could starve, or her sister could. Eight agonizing days went by until she was dead and the ten-year-old girl was recovered, alone and forever traumatized. There was no sign of the Professor. There never was.

This lunch was nothing to do with any criminals, however, and that was rather the point. He enjoyed spending time with Mary, he cared about her. She made him laugh, smile, feel like he was the most important person in the room whenever they were out. She was his saving grace when he was having a bad day. In this moment, laughter filling the comfy atmosphere of the small pub, there was nowhere he would rather be.

Okay, so maybe wrapped in Sherlock's arms would be nice. Ever since he'd had the revelation about how he felt much more for his flatmate than just how close friends would feel, John had watched the other and saw what he expected to see. His flatmate remaining the same. Whatever he thought he wanted, whatever he thought he felt, was never going to matter. Sherlock was asexual, preferred his own company over anyone else, and occupied nearly all of his time working cases and polishing his detection skills. A romantic relationship with a former army doctor and current part time doctor and sleuth hardly seemed likely. Besides, John hadn't even known he could swing the other way until Moriarty came along and opened his eyes to such an experience. The chance Sherlock ever would? Yeah, he wasn't holding his breath.

"Gladstone does miss you so."

Gladstone, Mary's bulldog. The missing puppy he'd helped her search for and found on his way to visiting Professor Kingston some months back, when Sherlock was gone, when he first met the gorgeous woman. Gladstone was a handsome dog, but awfully stupid sometimes. He did love the furry little creature anyhow.

"I should come by sometime soon to visit him."

She smiled. "You can come visit me, too."

John noticed for the first time that her hand was on his arm and she was leaning in, obvious signs of flirtation. He thought about Sherlock, then he thought about Jim, then he let her keep on but didn't return with flirting of his own. Sherlock might be a zero chance of happening, but he did like his time spent with Moriarty. Was it even possible for the criminal mastermind to feel anything real for him? He didn't seem like a sociopath, but as the man had said before, John wasn't the kind of doctor to make classifications such as sociopathy. Again he asked himself, what the hell was he doing?

He smiled warmly, pulling his arm away in the same motion and using attention to his drink as an excuse for the parting shift. Her face fell slightly and he didn't like that. John went ahead and extended the invitation he'd been considering for her. He couldn't stand seeing her even a slightest bit unhappy because of him.

"Listen, Mary," She hung on to his every word and he had to reconsider her before continuing on. "Tomorrow night there's a masquerade ball. It's a special event an acquaintance of mine requested I attend. Would you be my date?"

He winced at his own choice in wording. He didn't want to mislead Mary. Truly, he did care for her. Did he love her? John did his best to avoid answering that every time the question crossed his mind because he didn't know. He'd gone from having no real significant other in his life to having three very different people he cared deeply for. Shit, yup, he'd just admitted in his own mind that he cared for a dangerous criminal.

From the look Mary was giving him, she seemed to be wondering whether he cared for her the way she cared for him. He didn't know quite where he stood at the moment so he felt it best not to hint either way. He set his tea down and folded his hands on top of the table.

"This acquaintance of mine sometimes helps me out when I'm working a case without Sherlock. She told me about this party and says I might get answers about a case I worked and gave up on a while ago."

"I thought you didn't work alone any more, with Sherlock back and the NSA and MI6 letting you go."

That was true. But this was a case that involved people possibly working around or even alongside Lestrade. It was a case he could no longer leave behind if something could conceivably come of it.

"I don't usually. This case is too important to just ignore." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "It could very well mean corrupt members of the police. I thought Moriarty might have had a policeman working for him back when, well, when I thought Sherlock..jumped. Now my source is telling me I was getting close to something fishy alright, and it had nothing to do with a certain consulting criminal."

Mary appeared suitably horrified, placing a hand to her chest. "Oh my God, is it safe for you to be investigating?"

"As safe as it can be when it comes to corrupt cops I guess. The masquerade ball is being thrown by law enforcement. This is my chance to meet with my informant and scope out some of these police officers. Would you do me the honor?"

Her widening smile told him what her answer would be. Good. He could use the companionship and though the ball was primarily to do some investigating while Sherlock was busy moping about the apartment over the lack of progress on the Professor case, a night out with Mary would be fun. Yeah, he said to himself convincingly, it would be an entertaining night for gathering information and getting out of the flat with a beautiful woman.

///

John well and truly thought he'd covered all his bases. He was dressed up in a nice suit and tie, black mask stuffed inside his jacket, about to usher Mary out of the flat upon her arrival, the night of the masquerade ball. He somehow forgot about the fact that his flatmate was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"You've been corresponding with the woman."

For a moment he hadn't been sure he'd heard Sherlock right as the man came out of the kitchen, like he'd been lurking, waiting for John to come out of his bedroom, so he played dumb. Sherlock was not fooled and restated himself.

"The woman. The Woman. She's left messages on your blog under the initials TW. The one you no longer update. You seem to be checking your text messages though."

Sherlock held up his cell phone. No, wait, it was his cell phone. He grabbed for it but the other man pulled it out of his reach, using their height difference to his advantage.

"Sherlock, give it to me!"

"What do you think you're doing John?"

"It's none of your concern."

"John? Is everything alright?"

Mary had stepped back inside the apartment when she'd noticed he hadn't accompanied her down the steps. Mary, looking breath-taking in a long form-fitting green gown, a gold mask in hand, staring expectantly at him. Another moment and her gaze shifted to Sherlock, who was brushing past John to stand beside her at the doorway.

"Everything's fine. I don't believe we've been properly introduced. You must be the rarely spoken about friend of John's, Mary Morstan. A pleasure to finally meet you. The name's Sherlock Holmes. I'm John's flatmate and partner. John and I were just discussing the particulars of breaching a plus one invitation."

"What?" she asked, appropriately confused.

Sherlock didn't seem to share in her confusion or John's indignant stare.

"Well, you see, I'll be attending the ball with you. Shall we?"

Without waiting for a response, he swept from the flat. How did he manage to sweep out of a room so damn elegantly? The actual words he'd said registered in the next second. Wait, he was coming? Oh, damn it. He gave Mary a weak smile and moved to follow after Sherlock. Tonight was not going as expected already. He prayed nothing worse would come of this.

/

The ballroom was as crowded as would be anticipated with a party held by law enforcement hoping to raise money for their crime fighting methods. The necessary reporters flocked about the dance floor, searching for a personal spin to put on the big event. Some of them were suitably dressed for the occasion, others hadn't bothered to try and mix with the crowd of attendants. John and Mary wore their masks, completing their costumes, proudly. Sherlock didn't bother trying to act like he belonged.

The man spent his time trailing him and Mary, not uttering a word, yet speaking infinitely with his eyes. He wasn't going to let up on John all night and would be involved in the chat with Irene Adler. It wasn't ideal but he could accept his attendance. Especially since Adler was infamous for her secrets and tricks. Who better to get a read on her motives than the singular man to have beaten her in the past?

He spotted Lestrade accompanying his estranged wife and started over to him to say hello. He made a beeline away, tugging Mary along gently behind him, when the chief superintendent appeared in close radius to his friend. Plenty of time had passed since the night he right hooked the man for insulting Sherlock, but forgiveness apparently wasn't in his nature. Of course, John had never quite got around to apologizing for bloodying up his nose. He hadn't felt the man deserved the apology.

In his determination to avoid the superintendent, he accidentally bumped into another high positioned member of the police he vaguely recognized. In his 30's, close shaven reddish-brown hair, a bit of facial growth, and a strong sense about him, this was Elijah Marcus. He was chief inspector at the same station Lestrade worked out of and had made quite a name for himself while still relatively young.

"Omph! Sorry. Excuse me."

"It's perfectly alright," the man said, before turning around to look at John. His face twisted up in a contemplative stare. "Do I know you from somewhere? What's your name?"

"Oh!" John remembered the mask he was wearing and pulled it off. "John Watson."

As he did that, he glanced backwards and found Sherlock had wandered off. That was surprising. Then again, it also wasn't in the slightest. He shrugged it off when the man in front of him responded to his given name.

"John Watson. Watson. You're _the_ Dr. John Watson. You work cases along with Sherlock Holmes."

"Err, yes. That's right. That's me."

"It's truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Eli Marcus. This is my friend, detective inspector Jack Grant. He works in the guns and drugs department under my supervision. He follows your work much more closely than myself. He's a fan."

Detective inspector Jack Grant didn't look like a fan. The man who had been conferring with Marcus before John bumped into them was staring at him, unsmiling. He looked to be about John's own age and boy, wearing that mask of his did not help him seem any less insulted John was talking to them. Time to make an exit.

"Nice to meet you." He remembered who stood beside him. "This is my date, Mary, and we should really be moving on. We're meeting someone."

The detective inspector did not acknowledge his words, taking another sip of his drink and continuing to stare. Maybe he was sore about the fact that Sherlock solved many of their cases. Maybe he was just an arse. Whatever the reason, Eli didn't appear to notice the behavior.

"You're the guy who clocked the chief superintendent. Brilliant. Always wanted to do that myself. You're a brave man, Dr. Watson."

He forced out a small laugh. "Uh, yeah, that's me. I do apologize but I see someone I know. Enjoy the party."

"Oh I shall." Marcus said to him with a smile and a small wave goodbye.

John moved past the two policemen, Mary in hand, and walked through the crowded floor to meet a man he had not anticipated would be here. James Moriarty, perfectly dressed and groomed as always when in public, mask and all. Subconsciously, his grip tightened around Mary's slender hand. She sensed the tension and shifted toward him as they moved along.

"Is everything okay?"

He was honest with her. "I'm not sure."

Moriarty spotted him a couple of seconds before he would have reached him and turned, walking away. John frowned, wondering what the man was up to. He followed, rounded a corner into a hallway he discovered very much empty aside from one man, and it was not Jim.

There was a gun in his face. He hated when there was a gun in his face. Mary shrieked and instinctively he placed himself between her and the weapon, glowering at Moran.

"What are you doing?"

He spoke flatly. "She can go."

"Moran. Where's Jim?"

"She can go. Last chance."

John grinded down on his teeth and then reluctantly took Moran's advice. Get Mary out of harm's way. He lifted the hand he was already holding and placed his other hand around hers to enclose it tight, hopefully being reassuring.

"Mary. You need to go back to the party. Find Sherlock."

"John, I'm not leaving you with this man."

"Go, Mary, please."

She did not look inclined to listen. She pulled her hand free of John's and glared at Moran.

"You hurt him, you'll have me to deal with."

Moriarty's right hand man watched her leave and only when she was out of sight did he allow the amusement to show on his face.

"You know what? I believe her. You sure know how to pick them, Dr. Watson."

"I'm not interested in small talk, _Sebastian_. Where is he and what does he want? Back to playing his games, huh? I knew it."

"Oh did you?"

John turned around to find Moriarty approaching, minus the mask. His hands were in his pockets and he was looking smug. That wouldn't bode well for him. Apparently his plans meant nothing tonight if the criminal mastermind was in action.

"Moriarty. What do you want from Sherlock this time?"

"Actually, it's the other one who needs to be convinced."

"The-the other?" he was more than a little confused.

Moriarty's phone went off and he plucked it out of his pocket with a smirk. "Ah, there he is now." He winked at John before answering. "Hello, Iceman."

Iceman. He knew that codename. Jim had said it wasn't Sherlock he needed to convince but "the other one". He'd meant the other Holmes. Mycroft was on the other end of the line. Oh. John glanced at Moran still holding the gun on him, and then back to Moriarty. He was a hostage. Well that had taken considerably longer to figure out than it should have.

"Stop talking." Moriarty was saying. "I will put a bullet in the Hound's kneecap if you don't. Ah, you understand who I mean. So you have been paying attention. Now, unless you want to deal with a deeply upset-" He listened for a moment, then his smile only expanded. "Very good. These are my terms. My name cleared by your people, and five," he glanced at John, "make that ten million pounds."

"Ransom? Really, Jim?"

Moriarty hung up the phone and stepped close to John, gripping his chin firmly. "I told you to stay away but you didn't and you made me care. It might not be clear where your heart lies but it is clear where his does."

John watched Moriarty's other hand skim along the edge of his suit jacket, finally finding purchase with a tight grip on his tie. He let go of his chin and placed his hand flat on John's chest.

"Here. His heart is here. I promised I would burn the heart out of him if he interfered too much with my work. I didn't say anything about if you did."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think the money's for, Johnny? I'll be limiting the jobs I take since you're such a stickler for morality."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you."

"Smart of you. Because you and me, that was a ploy to take advantage of your goodness. A test of sorts. I got you to love me and you can't kill me any more."

Wait, one minute it sounded like he was almost saying he liked John, and the next he was revealing the whole thing had been one big act. Moriarty contradicting himself? He only ever did that when it was intentional. He was mad, either way, because this had to do with the rivalry between him and Sherlock. They could both of them be so infantile for men with such high intelligence.

John allowed his irritation to shine through. "I don't love you. I told you, it was just sex. That's over now, too, in case you couldn't work that out yourself."

The smile dropped from Moriarty's face. "Hurting you, is hurting Sherlock."

John didn't have to pretend in any way that he was surprised when Jim hit him in the jaw. It hurt. He'd had a fleeting hope that Jim Moriarty could change for the better. That was wishful thinking it would seem. He tried to see the good in everyone. His mistake.

The second blow dropped him to his knees and he put a hand over the cut he could feel above his left eye. When Moriarty moved to strike him a third time, John's hands came up, locked onto his wrists, and twisted until the offending fists loosened. In the moment his opponent hesitated, he swept his leg out, knocking him to the floor. Then he felt the cool metal of a gun at the back of his neck. Right, Moran. No fair fight with these two. Moriarty always had a plan and a backup plan to the initial plan. Always.

Moran allowed him to get to his feet while Moriarty stayed where he was on the floor when his phone went off again. He looked at John and continued to do so when he answered the call.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Virgin."

John perked up, realizing Sherlock was the caller. He knew immediately it was a mistake as Moriarty's expression darkened when he noticed John's reaction. As he listened to whatever Sherlock was saying, Moriarty peered past him to Moran. He turned toward the sniper, edging himself closer very slow, calculated.

Another few minutes passed with John moving ever nearer to the primary physical threat. Moriarty chatted away incessantly with Sherlock, though it was clear Sherlock wasn't getting much in with the other talking so much. He was just waiting for his chance to get out of this himself.

"It's done."

Moriarty smiled at his employee's words, the smile not reaching his eyes. "The east hallway. You know, I'm very much surprised you couldn't think properly enough to save your pet. Here you were thinking I swept John up and took him far away, when really, we've merely been down the hall. You don't know me at all. Thank your brother for the extra funding. A man in my business has plenty of extra costs."

He hung up the phone and turned to where he knew Sherlock would come from. This whole thing had only taken maybe thirty minutes. He couldn't believe Mycroft had agreed to Moriarty's terms. Was it because of what the criminal had made his younger brother do the last time they'd squared off? It didn't matter. The bad guys shouldn't get to win.

John was close enough. He spun suddenly, knocking the gun out of Moran's hands, and spin kicked him back. The bigger man was caught off guard, giving John enough time to swipe the gun up from the ground and point it at him to keep him at a distance. His gaze continuously moving from Moran to Moriarty, he spoke to the latter.

"You got your precious money. I'm going to leave now."

"Give me the gun and we'll go back to the party together, Johnny. Nice and public where everyone will be safe."

He hesitated only a moment before he handed the gun over. It was likely Moriarty had other gunmen nearby to do his bidding so if he wanted John kept, he was going to be. This was a willing offer for him to go freely. John wasn't going to pass up such an offer. As Moran walked off, away from the party, Moriarty having returned his sidearm to him, the mastermind continued to stare intensely at John.

"Remember that time you said you owed me your life?"

John startled, answering without forethought. "Yes."

"We're even, John."

Before he could say anything in response, Sherlock was there with Mary. They both of them looked slightly out of breath but Sherlock was doing his best to cover it up when he saw him and Moriarty standing there in the hall. John tried to wipe the thin line of blood trailing from the small cut above his eye subtly, so Mary wouldn't see he'd been hurt. She ran to him, seeming not to notice the motion, but Sherlock did. Sherlock's piercing eyes were burning through him.

Holding Mary to his side, he watched Jim and Sherlock regard one another, clear animosity between them. Then he was aware his friend was looking at him again.

"Are you okay, John?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"To the party, Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked leadingly, false smile intact.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to punch the man. John kind of wanted to, too. They settled for the slap Mary dealt him. It was shocking what she had done, but even as he pulled her away from the dangerous man, he couldn't hide the pleased smile that spread across his face. And for once, Moriarty wasn't smiling. Instead he looked rather annoyed at being slapped by the woman and his expression soon formed into a scowl as he led the way back to the ballroom.

John took Mary by the hand and fell into step beside Sherlock. He continued to watch Moriarty's back as they followed him towards noise and people.

"Why did Mycroft do what he wanted? He shouldn't have done that."

The consulting detective's gaze shifted downwards to him. "No amount of money is worth more than your life, John. Besides, as Mycroft put it, clearing Moriarty's name is of little consequence as there is nothing tangible linking him to any of his crimes."

"Kidnapping me isn't tangible evidence?"

"James Moriarty is an enigma. Suppose we got all the evidence we could ever hope for to use against him? Do you think a man like him would see justice?"

"Still didn't have to give him all that money," he grumbled as they entered all the bustle and music of the party.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

John and Sherlock turned as one, while Mary and Moriarty were slower to turn and see who was asking for the detective consultant. A tall man in a silver mask stood maybe a yard away, among numerous couples laughing and chattering together. He wore a black cowboy hat that matched his suit, entirely black save for the tie, which was the same silver as the mask.

"And Mr. James Moriarty. My, my, this _is_ a treat."

A solid jawline, thin lips slightly upturned in a small smile, a minimal amount of facial growth, and brown eyes. This was all John could make of the man wearing a mask and a hat. He didn't recognize him. Glancing in Sherlock's direction, and then Moriarty's, it was apparent neither one of them knew the man either. Moriarty looked interested, Sherlock looked suspicious, and John, John was busy looking at them. What was wrong with him? It felt like he'd been asking himself that same question far too often of the past month or so. He just felt..distracted.

"The world as most know it, is an illusion. But you, you few, understand reality is chaos. People are fools who will lie continuously to themselves so as to continue living in ignorance."

Recognition dawned on Sherlock and Moriarty's faces, while John took just a little bit longer to see it and share in their understanding.

"There is far too much ignorance. I seek to make better men, pure of heart. You are men in a position to make people better, yet you are drowning in your own faults."

"So you're him. The man I've been looking for."

"Looking for...?" John understood now. "You're the criminal we've been looking for. You're the man calling himself the Professor." Full understanding hit him. "You nearly killed my sister!"

"Oh God..." Mary murmured in silent horror. She clutched John's arm more tightly.

He wanted to attack the man right then and there. He only stopped himself when he sensed Sherlock looking at him and saw the warning in his eyes. This man was a killer. A killer who had escaped identification and apprehension by every agency searching for him. They didn't know if he was here alone or what kind of resources he might have at his disposable. They had to be smart about this.

As usual with these insane criminal types, he was ignored in favor of giving Sherlock the attention.

"I just wanted to meet you personally. See what all the fuss was about. I mean, you failed to even find me after all this time. I've been waiting. Not even Mr. Moriarty has successfully put a stop to my antics. I hear you've been getting rather irritated on my encroaching into the territory you perceive to be yours."

Sherlock eyed the masked man. "Why don't you identify yourself if you're so certain of your status above the rest of us?"

"A name is just that, a name. And haven't you been listening? You, Mr. Holmes, and you, Mr. Moriarty, are not like most people. The trouble is, you know it, and do nothing to benefit the world. You remain impure because you live your lives for yourselves and only yourselves, ever searching for methods to fulfill your own needs."

"I don't like you." Moriarty stated.

His face was expressionless. That was often when he was at his most dangerous. His eyes were speaking, daring the man to make a move. Moriarty did like a challenge.

As though the consulting criminal had said nothing, the Professor finished his little speech to the two geniuses on John's right.

"Men like you destroy themselves."

"Did you just come here to be arrogant? You're in a room full of police. What's to stop them from arresting you?" Mary questioned.

John looked at her and then back at the agreeably arrogant man, fearful there would be some sort of repercussion for her speaking her mind. The man only did what he'd done to John, ignoring her as if she'd never spoken. In fact, he was smiling, his gaze sweeping between Moriarty and Sherlock.

"This visit was suitably entertaining. I've been keeping my eye on you, very closely. The devil, trying to play at being a man." His eyes moved off of Moriarty, to Sherlock. "The man, trying to play at being an angel." Then surprisingly, his eyes settled on John for the first time since he'd showed himself. "And of course, the doctor here, an angel trying to play at being a man."

A scream tore through the room, originating from the center somewhere. Next, what was very much an explosion came from the second floor balcony and that sent everybody running. Like typical people in a panic, they fled every which way, no real sense to where they were going because they didn't know where to go.

As expected, when they brought their attention back level to where the Professor had been standing, he was gone. A second look around informed John that Moriarty had made his escape as well. This whole night had gone to hell and become entirely ridiculous. Finally John reacted to it all.

"Damn it, Sherlock. We had him."

Sherlock glanced down at his cell. "My brother must be indulging in sweets again. His response time has slowed considerably."

By the time he turned to express his puzzlement, it was cleared up by the appearance of Mycroft and two of his suits. He strolled in the front door casually amid the frightened civilians and pissed off cops attempting to get a handle on the situation. He stopped promptly before them.

"Ms. Morstan," he greeted with a slight nod. "I trust the events of tonight have not been too traumatic?"

Mary impressed John by looking the man in the eye and then shaking her head at him. "You're Sherlock's older brother. You work for the government and are supposed to be some kind of genius. This should not have happened. Criminals are running about London at will, doing as they please, spreading terror. I'll stay living in Cardiff thank you very much. Do your job."

She walked off, toward the exit. He was definitely impressed. Watching her go, he was horrified when Mycroft casually informed them that he had been kept from arriving earlier because he was dealing with multiple assassinations of high ranking people around the world. Sherlock asked if they were connected to Moriarty and the elder Holmes confirmed. Five people were killed and there was an almost certain probability they were high ranking members of Moriarty's widespread criminal web. Now why would Moriarty kill five of his own people? And how did Mycroft know so much in such a short amount of time? It was scary.

"I am sick of this. I am so tired of-just-ugh. Find your own way home, Sherlock. I'll be staying with Mary tonight."

He jogged out the front door, a uniformed P.C. trying to stop him with protests about how he was a witness. He brushed him off and with so many other people moving around, the man gave up and let him go. John didn't see Sherlock's shoulders hunch over a bit when he left. He was thinking about how Irene had either stood him up or abandoned the meet with everything that had gone down. Therefore, he also failed to linger long enough to hear Sherlock and Mycroft's brief exchange of words.

/

"I'm losing him, Mycroft."

"Perhaps you already have. You certainly aren't doing much to help your cause."

The death glare he shot his brother shut him up about John. It didn't shut him up entirely though.

"I believe I have a lead on Joh-his case. An unidentified woman boarded a plane approximately ten minutes ago. We believe she is the woman he was going to meet here about the police force we're looking into for corruption. You know, the informant you didn't bother to tell me about, and the meet you didn't bother sharing. We're going after her. We're going to find the ones who tried to kill him so it can't happen again. I'm sure you find that agreeable. Pack your bags. We leave tomorrow. That will give me time to get a handle on these assassinations first."

"Putting on weight, Mycroft?"

The older of the two sighed. "Tomorrow, Sherlock. I'll pick you up at 0600."


	17. John

He spent most of the night consoling Mary, reassuring her that he wasn't always in that kind of danger. When she pressed for more information, he admitted he had been kidnapped numerous times, but it wasn't anything to worry about. She did not agree with him. He admitted it was a trying life some days, and he admitted he liked where he was right now, sitting quietly with her. He talked about how much he'd been worrying about his sister's attack and how it bothered him far more than his own near death experience. It especially bothered him now that her attacker had put in an appearance to meet Sherlock. Some of the anger-inducing talk aside, it was a really nice time and then they kissed.

Kissing. They'd never done that before. They did a whole lot of it before the night was through though. He found he quite liked it a lot. For the better part of a year, Mary had been the thing keeping him grounded and sane. It had to count for something.

Around two in the morning, they fell asleep watching an old film on the couch. John was woken by a text message from Moriarty a few hours later.

_Leaving the country for a while. Don't know if you care. At least I bothered to inform you of my travels, unlike a certain someone you call partner. Sleep well, my Hound. -JM_

John returned the phone to his pocket, frowning at the message. What did he mean? Why did that man always have to have the upper hand in everything? He would be forever playing catch-up with Sherlock and Jim in his life. Sherlock...

Easing the phone out of his pocket, he dialed Sherlock's number. He didn't answer. He tried again. Still no answer. The third time he tried, there was no answer but a text message was sent to him not even five seconds after his attempt.

_Out of the country with puffer cheeks. A few days at most. On the trail of your informant. Case should be solved by my return. -SH_

Sherlock had left the country? Following his informant, for his case. So many words he would like to use to vent out his frustrations. He swallowed all of that down and instead he fixed his gaze on Mary. He didn't want to wake her just because he was upset. She was asleep against his chest, looking adorable. This right here with her, this felt safe and happy. Mary would never leave the country without telling him before going. He had some things to think over.

///

The following morning, Mary made him breakfast and prodded him concerning his inability to sleep much the previous night. He didn't tell her about Moriarty or Sherlock's messages for him and she didn't suspect. She actually thought it was her fault he didn't get rest because they stayed up so late talking. Too cute.

After disregarding that notion, they went for a walk with Gladstone in tow. The dog always gave him the warm and fuzzy feelings of the day he first met Mary. That had been a good day. He became determined to make this day into a good day, too.

One good day turned into several good days. Good days that came to an end when Sherlock called with the bad news. They'd solved his case. John hadn't known it, but his case into trying to find Moriarty's inside man leading to potential corrupt cops, had been the crumbs of the case. The real frosting came with the information that the corrupt cops were the ones behind putting the hit out on him. Oh, and once Mycroft identified the names, the dirty look that man had been giving him at the masquerade ball made all the more sense.

Detective inspector Jack Grant was corrupt. Surprise, surprise, so was his direct supervisor, chief inspector Eli Marcus. The same two bloody cops he was chatting up mere days ago! Upon hearing the news, he immediately headed back to the flat to meet Sherlock there once his flight arrived at the airport. He would prefer to be present when the men got arrested, but apparently Mycroft had other ideas and wanted to take care of this mess privately. John knew Lestrade was going to be extremely upset if he didn't know what was going on in the building he worked before it went downhill for their public image.

Day already gone pretty much to hell with the knowledge that policemen had tried to kill him, he became awfully annoyed when once again, he found himself kidnapped. Kidnapped twice in one week. This was going to be difficult to explain away to Mary.

They'd been having evening tea with Mrs. Hudson under the guise that they were friends of John. Buttered her up with what were probably false stories about Lestrade until he came home. When Mrs. Hudson was greeting him cheerfully, she was always more cheerful after having visitors, Jack Grant had come up behind her and signaled him not to say a word. The dear woman had no idea she was being used as insurance to keep him in line.

While Marcus kept up the charm, saying his goodbyes exaggeratedly, Grant had come up from behind and put a gun on him. It had been only too easy to walk him out from there. Not fair. He was missing the drug and the benefits that came with it. The drug made him feel invincible and he was able to fight at a markedly higher level. Now, drug-free, he felt helpless. Guess it was back to old times. John just hoped, like the old times, Sherlock would figure things out and save his ass.

///

They were nearing Baker Street when Sherlock's phone rang. He stared at the ID reading telling him it was Lestrade calling before answering it. He'd just solved a case, maybe he had another for him. It would make his less than stellar week much improved.

"Sherlock, have you spoken to John?"

"Yes, not half an hour ago."

"Well, right now, I can't get hold of him. And Sally didn't show up for her shift, not answering her phone either."

"Who's Sally?"

"Donovan! Sergeant Donovan! Seriously, Sherlock, I swear-"

Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence, not at all interested in hearing him complain about how sometimes he acted less than human, the kind of information he should maintain, blah, blah. Besides, he had to try John's number.

"Okay I'm going to try John again."

"Sherlock! Do you think it could be connected?"

"Calling John now," he said and hung up.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. The look went ignored. It went ignored until John wasn't answering his calls.

"I need you to track John's phone. Now."

He was thankful his brother didn't ask why. While they waited for the results, Sherlock observed his brother working rapid-fire on his hand-held device. What was he doing on that thing? He was a second away from snatching it out of his hand to see for himself when Mycroft shared the most unpleasant of news and kept it coming.

"His cell isn't sending out a signal. I went ahead and tried to track the sergeant's phone, same problem. I've been informed our corrupt officers left shift without a word to anyone on where or why, which is highly suggestive they have done something to John and-"

"Why would they take Donovan? I get John, but why take a cop, too?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps she saw or heard something she shouldn't have."

He glowered at his brother. "How helpful."

Sherlock's phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. He considered it could be John calling him from some random phone, the only phone he could get to. He answered the call, placing it on speaker when Mycroft looked ready to do something not at all suitable for the finely tailored suit he wore.

_"The world as we think we know it, is the great lie. Compassion is weakness. Strength lies in the purity of the heart, which thrives through understanding the truth of the world."_

The voice was prerecorded, automatic sounding. When it was finished, the authentic voice came on.

_"Did you like it? That's the message I'm going to leave at my next crime scene tonight. I've designed two crime scenes, but you get to choose which one is to happen. Don't you feel special?"_

"Not at all. Where's John? Why have you taken him?"

_"Dr. Watson? I have done nothing with him. I merely..made a suggestion to a pair of highly respected members of the London police force, on how they might go about disposing of two problems. All they had to do was pay a beloved old landlady a visit, and well, he walked right out the door with them."_

Did they hurt Mrs. Hudson? He'd kill them if they did. John would kill them if they did. It seemed more likely they hadn't done anything bad to her or John would probably be a free man right now. Ticked off and volatile, but not in any danger himself...

"So what? Now you're offering consulting services to criminals, too?"

_"Not at all. You see, you're my next experiment. I've got a good feeling that you'll be better at this than the others that came before."_

"What do you want from me?"

_"It's an experiment, Mr. Holmes. Two lives hang in the balance. You have time to save one."_

Sherlock scoffed. "I'll save them both."

The Professor went on, as though he'd said nothing.

_"A seemingly easy choice. The man who means the most to you is surely the one to save."_

Of course it was an easy choice. John was everything. Without John, he wouldn't be happy, he'd feel empty again, and nothing would be okay. John was a man who cared a lot about other people though. He would not be all right with someone else dying so that he could live. It went back to what he'd told this "professor" before. He would save them both.

_"Except, you know that very man would tell you to save Sally Donovan. Dr. Watson is a soldier. He's willing to die to save the life of another."_

How well did this man know John? Did he have resources everywhere like Moriarty seemed to? He felt like he hardly had enough privacy as it was with his brother hovering about him all the time, monitoring his entire life like it were his own. Then Moriarty came along, and now this latest criminal. This was beginning to get ridiculous.

_"So the question is, are you willing to let your best friend die, in order to save the life of a woman who hates you, calls you freak?"_

He didn't even want to know how the Professor knew what the sergeant called him on occasion when she was particularly clueless and spinning in circles with her own problematic personal life.

_"Will you save the life of an innocent cop? Or will you disappoint dear Watson, by once again thinking selfishly, saving his life instead?"_

Sherlock didn't dignify his queries with any direct response. He instead responded to a previous statement. The message the Professor planned to leave at his future crime scene.

"Saving either one would be an act of compassion. If compassion is weakness as you say, to meet your desired requirements, I must save neither."

A deep chuckle came from the other end. _"I knew you'd be better. There are no designated requirements for my experiments I'm afraid. Nothing for you to observe, document, and solve to a definite conclusion. Now, time is running out for our friends. One is at a place that comes in second, that praises the widespread vulnerability of the human race. The other... Fifth day of the week, two, one, five, one. You have less than thirty minutes."_

He felt very real panic flow through him. His mind was racing a mile a minute, running every conceivable option by. There were too many possibilities. He would never be able to figure it out in such a short span of time.

"That's impossible. There isn't enough information to get locations!"

Silence for a moment, then the Professor said one thing more before hanging up. His words were hardly helpful and not at all comforting.

_"The first will lead to a..very messy death. The second..will lead to an agonizing death. Make your choice."_

He fumed for thirty seconds, spent the next five minutes scanning and rescanning every word spoken from the Professor's mouth, and still he came up with nothing. Another five minutes went by and he just couldn't focus properly. There weren't enough facts to evaluate, no conclusions he could reach and be certain about. He was down to twenty minutes or less. He began to panic.

So inside the thoughts and ideas in his mind, he didn't notice his brother had moved to sit beside him until a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He jumped but Mycroft settled him again, then turned his chin toward him.

"Sherlock. I can help. Let's work this out loud with each other. One location at a time. The first. Go over the clues for the first location."

"A place that comes in second. A place that praises widespread vulnerability of the human race. A death that will end messy." Sherlock repeated the words he'd been saying over and over in his head, numbly.

"We know how much he hates compassion so that must be the vulnerability of everyone he's referring to."

"But that tells us nothing!"

"Think," his brother said back to him.

Didn't his brother understand he was trying to think as quickly as he could? He didn't know. He couldn't figure it out. John! It was John! He..decided to break everything up further.

"What if every word was chosen for a reason. Comes in second or second best, praises compassion, messy end."

"If I had to narrow those words down even further, I'd choose praises and compassion. Praise makes me think of preaching so..potentially a church. Unfortunately, there are no shortages of churches in London or England. We can't even guarantee these locations are in London."

Under twenty minutes? He tried not to think of how doomed John was. An idea dawned on him.

"Churches. There are a lot of them, but fewer that are significantly tall. A messy death could mean a fall from a great height."

Mycroft seemed to like where he was going with this and had more to add, all the while fiddling with the keypad on his hand-held device. "A place that comes in second. We have it, Sherlock. The second highest church building is St. Paul's Cathedral. It's in London."

Sherlock was already dialing Lestrade. "Okay, the second location."

"Right. This one's complicated, even more so than the first." Mycroft noted. "We have numbers. Fifth day of the week, that's Thursday. Then we have the numbers two, one, five, one."

Lestrade picked up after the third ring. _"Sherlock! Please tell me you've got something."_

"Sergeant Donovan's location. The Professor helped your two dirty cops. They snatched her, along with John, and put them at two separate locations. They've both got about fifteen minutes left to live."

_"What? And..what? What the hell's going on?!"_

"There's no time for explanations. We've figured out the first location, where Donovan was taken. St. Paul's Cathedral. She'll be at the top of the clock tower. You need to get there now. You don't have time to waste."

"Sherlock," Mycroft pondered, even while he was busy trying to express the urgency of getting to Donovan. "How do you know it's the sergeant who's at the first location?"

He answered immediately, almost like he was on automatic. He didn't have time for useless explanations. He had to focus all of his brain power on finding John.

"John's at the second location." He lifted his eyes to his brother as he spoke to both him and Lestrade. "Because, the Professor said the agonizing death would result at the second location. John dying an agonizing death would hurt me the most. He's at the second location. The one I can't figure out."

"Are you sure you can't? John's a civilian, Donovan's not. His life is the priority."

Sherlock hated emotion. He could detect the tremor of fear and guilt in Lestrade's voice as he went by the book, telling him that Donovan's life came second. The detective inspector worked with both of them on a regular basis and it was taking everything out of him to make the fair assessment that police signed up for danger with the job. None of it really mattered. He didn't know where John was. He didn't have the second location.

"Go get her. Save Donovan. I'll keep trying to figure out where John is. I don't know. I just don't know."

Sherlock hung up. He stared at his palms in his lap. Two fully functional hands that were utterly useless. He felt so helpless. He felt so afraid and it made him angry. He didn't do feelings. He kept them closed up and locked away in a quiet section of his mind.

"Four numbers is too brief a sequence to be coordinates. A code wouldn't make sense..."

He waved off his brother's ideas. They were stupid, unlikely, not helpful. "Numbers... What if his continuous stressing of time wasn't only referring to the time limit. What if that's what the numbers refer to."

"A time." Mycroft pondered this theory. "Two, one, five, one. Or, twenty-one, fifty-one. That's 9:51." He glanced at his watch. "That's in ten minutes. I think you're right. It's a time. But why that time? Why not 9:45 or 10:00?"

Sherlock stared out the window of the car, where they'd been parked unmoving throughout this whole catastrophe of trying to save the lives jeopardized by the Professor. He didn't have answers.

"That particular time must represent something. It has to mean something."

"Yeah, not helping."

Mycroft stared out the window on his side and froze. Sherlock noticed immediately because it was so unlike him. He tilted his head a bit, curious.

"What is it?"

"That's the London Bridge."

His brother pointed to a spot off in the near distance.

"Yeah, so?"

He knocked on the window between the backseat and the front, ordering the driver to start moving again. Then turned to face Sherlock.

"The London Bridge is built over the River Thames. 9:51 must be high tide tonight."

Sherlock leaned forward in the seat to shout at the man behind the wheel. "Step on it!"

Tires squealed as the man pushed down hard on the pedal. The action caused him to rock backwards against the seat but he didn't care. They knew where John was and that's what mattered. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his brother likely checking his facts to see if the high tide time was indeed the time they believed. Sherlock didn't need such convincing. He felt right about the London Bridge. After all, to drown would be an agonizing death.

/

They arrived at the bridge at 9:53. They spotted the support beam of the bridge where John was chained two minutes later. He peered through the darkness. The water was lapping at his chin already. They didn't have much time.

"More help is already on the way, Sherlock."

He barely nodded once and then he was tearing off his coat and suit jacket, stepping to the water's edge. He turned back to his brother.

"We need something to cut those chains."

Mycroft didn't seem to know what to do about that. He frowned, thinking rapidly, and then returned to his car to open his trunk and start rifling inside it. He looked over the surface of the water.

"John!"

His friend's head jerked up immediately, eyes searching him out until he saw him.

"Sherlock!"

The desperation and fear in his voice almost broke him apart.

"Sherlock! I'm chained to this thing!" He gasped out as water splashed against his face. "Bring something that will cut through metal. Hurry!"

"We lucked out." Mycroft told him, coming to stand by his side. "My driver keeps all of his tools in the trunk of his car."

Sherlock just stared at him until his brother got to the point.

"He had bolt cutters."

He grabbed them out of his brother's hand and dove into the water. Swimming toward John, he had not so pleasant memories of swimming down into the darkened depths of this very river alongside a different part, to rescue him a separate time. The one thing they had going for him this time, was that John wasn't already gravely injured by two bullets. At least he didn't appear gravely injured. When he reached him, he pushed John back.

"Keep your head up."

"Sherlock, the water."

"I know."

"It's coming fast."

"I know."

Their eyes locked. "Hurry?"

"Right."

His eyes scanned John's body up and down. Then he went under to get a closer look. He emerged maybe five seconds later. They'd wrapped him up good and proper. That was inconvenient. The water level had risen to John's cheek bones. He was squirming and struggling, obviously having a difficult time keeping his head up above the water. He was shivering terribly, too.

Sherlock was more than surprised when he heard splashing and twisted in the water to see Mycroft treading water beside him. He didn't think the man even capable of getting wet. It would be touching of the man if he wasn't so preoccupied with the task at hand.

"Cut the chains, Sherlock, I'll keep his head upright."

He didn't waste any more time. He ducked under the water again, bolt cutters in hand, and got to work. It took him another two dives beneath the surface to successfully free John of his bonds. When he came back up, John was coughing and choking out water, Mycroft pounding on his back and then cheeks to help expel the liquid.

Together, the brothers dragged John to dry ground, his own limbs barely functional from the time spent trussed up and submerged in cold water. Backup had yet to arrive and Sherlock shuddered to think what might have become of John if Mycroft's driver hadn't had a stack of tools in the trunk.

Seeing John shivering and wrapping his arms around himself as they sat on the grassy embankment, he remembered his suit jacket and coat. He grabbed them up from the ground and moved over to John.

"Put this on."

John glanced at the jacket offered and shook his head. "You need it."

"You need it more."

"You're too thin. Keep it."

He rolled his eyes and put on his jacket. Then he shoved his long coat at John.

"I'm wearing my jacket. Now you wear this."

John opened his mouth, then wisely thought better of what was probably another protest, and assented. Sherlock helped him put it on and then wrapped it about him. Finally, he wrapped himself around John, pulling him close to make him warm.

Mycroft returned from his brief trip to his car. "They got to Donovan in time. She was strapped and prepped to fall off of the cathedral roof. They got her though. She's okay. The Professor didn't claim any victims this time. His crime scene won't come to pass. We're all okay."

Sirens sounded in the distance. Help was approaching. Typical backup, always arriving after things happened. Cradling John against his chest, he wanted the moment never to end. The warm feeling of knowing his John was here in his arms and they were safe.


	18. Look to the Sky

"I warned you. I told you."

In the aftermath of their kidnapping and near death situation, the witnesses were gathered together in uncomfortable silence following a medical review and provision of their statements. The silence was made uncomfortable by how long they sat waiting to be released, and by how the anger grew and grew in Donovan. It seemed she was done keeping quiet about what happened to them and what she was thinking.

He knew she was feeling vulnerable and afraid. She'd come seconds from dropping over the side of the clock tower on the cathedral, falling to her death. She was a cop who signed on for possible injury or death. It didn't make enduring a near death incident any easier. John could see she wasn't handling it well and was looking for someone to blame.

"I warned you to stay away from him."

"I know you did. This wasn't his fault."

"He's bad news. He probably got off on figuring out where we were from the clues the Professor gave him. Probably loved every minute of it."

"He didn't." John was certain about that. "You thought you were going to die. I thought I might die too."

Donovan sprang up from her seat beside him and towered over him. She looked furious. Her eyes were also threatening to spill tears.

"He's a monster! No different from bad guys like this Professor psychopath!"

"Don't call him that!"

"He is one. You'll become one, too, if you keep hanging around, agreeing with him!"

It was John's turn to jump out of his seat. She had to take a quick step away when he did, but she didn't back off, and neither did he. John took a second step toward her to force her to move farther from him.

"You're one to talk? Two of your fellow police officers were just uncovered as corrupt. Going by your logic, you must be dirty as well!"

For a moment he really thought she was going to punch him. She pulled her arm back by her head and her eyes widened in absolute frustration. Then Lestrade and Anderson walked in on this scene.

"What's this then?"

It was like a shade had been drawn over her face. Her arm dropped to her side and she whirled around to face her co-workers.

"Am I good to go?"

"Well, yes, there may be follow up questions but it's not likely. You can go home."

"Yeah, whatever, you have my number."

She practically stomped out the door, leaving the three men to stare after her. Lestrade turned his attention to John while Anderson went after Sally. The man had the look of a desperate puppy hopelessly confused.

"What was that about?"

"It was nothing." Another figure appeared in the doorway next to Lestrade. "Sherlock."

"John. Are you..."

"I'm good. Really, I've had far worse kidnappings."

Sherlock managed a weak smile. It was a sad attempt, but John would take it for what it was meant to be. He walked over to the exit with Sherlock and Lestrade, tugging at the dry change of clothes the station provided for him. They were a bit loose, at least two sizes too big. Before leaving, he had to say something to the detective inspector.

"You should know, I think Sergeant Donovan may need counseling."

The other man had a hard look to him about that, but he accepted the suggestion as well as any cop who'd just had a rough night. Lestrade looked tired. The policeman should consider taking a night or two off. He informed John of something that certainly improved his own night.

"Oh, ah, thought you should know, we picked up Marcus and Grant trying to leave the country by private plane. Thank God for your brother's government ties, or we probably never would have located them, Sherlock."

A grunt was all he was going to get out of Sherlock. It made John smile a little. The brothers obviously cared about each other and yet they were so keen on acting like they wanted to know nothing about one another. They weren't as good at hiding it as they thought they were. Aww, sibling love. How quaint.

"Dr. Watson!"

Oh no, not this guy again. He'd liked the man well enough when he'd first met and worked with him on a case. He hadn't liked him so much when it was him being accused of killing people. Detective inspector Dimmock marched over to where they were standing.

"What are you doing free, Dr. Watson?"

"Dimmock-" Lestrade started but immediately found himself cut off.

"He should be locked away to stand trial for the murders he _did_ commit. Remember the father and daughter who lost their lives? Remember them? In their case, we do have evidence and charges have been filed."

John lowered his head in guilt. He may not have been able to control himself, but he'd done those actions nonetheless.

"That's absurd." Lestrade retorted before Sherlock could get a word in edgewise to undoubtedly say something rude and unhelpful. "John was drugged. Those murders took place against his will. He can't be held responsible when he wasn't of sound mind."

"The trial is going ahead regardless. Whether or not some drug 'might' have made him do it is for a court to decide."

"This is far more ignorant than your usual brand, Dimmock. Have you learned nothing from working with me?

Dimmock put his hands on his hips. "Get to the point."

"John didn't do it and I can prove it. I took a cursory glance at the case file."

"Oh just a cursory glance, did you?"

His voice was dripping with sarcasm and John just stood back and waited for Sherlock to educate him on the finer points of problem solving. Sherlock stood tall and gladly informed him of what he was missing.

"Your one and only witness is false. He was hired by the remaining project head, Myra Jones, or her soldier, Parker. Follow me."

Sherlock led the way outside and stopped once he hit the sidewalk. Glancing up and down the street, his gaze landed on a silver car parked nearby. He pointed toward the vehicle.

"Is that your car?"

Dimmock shifted his expression from disbelieving to scrutinizing what the man could possibly want with a car. When Sherlock sent him an impatient look, he let his own look shift into full on suspicion.

"Yes. Why?"

"Give John your keys."

Lestrade, Dimmock, and John spoke in unison. "What?"

"The witness claimed they saw John leave the victims' house, get into a vehicle, and drive away from the crime scene. Give it to him, Dimmock, and get behind the wheel, John."

"But Sherlock-"

His protest was interrupted by the man and he found himself with a set of keys in his hand and his friend shoving him towards the police detective's car. He looked to Lestrade for help but the man only shrugged and waited to see what would happen. John was not okay with this. It wouldn't end well. He got behind the wheel as the two detective inspectors got in the backseat and Sherlock slid in beside him.

"Okay, go. Drive."

"Sherlock..."

"Drive, Dr. Watson. Go ahead." Dimmock told him.

But Dimmock didn't understand why that was a bad idea. He tried one last time.

"But Sherlock..."

"Drive!"

John let out an irritated noise. He did what Sherlock asked and started the car, only after searching a bit longer than what would have been considered normal for where the key went in. When he finally got it, he looked to the man beside him.

"Now what?"

"Drive."

He stared at the road ahead. Empty. He placed his hands on the wheel and stared down at the floor of the car. Okay, he knew one was for braking and one was to go. He guessed. Nothing happened. He tried the second one. Nothing happened. Now he was confused. He looked to Sherlock but the man only stared back at him. John squirmed uncomfortably in the seat and searched about for something else he was supposed to possibly do. There were some levers...

"Okay."

John kept searching for what he needed to do to get the car to move, waving off Dimmock without really thinking about it.

"Just..give me a second. I'll figure it out."

"Dr. Watson. John."

He did turn around in his seat then. Dimmock had an incredulous look on his face that morphed into a bit of guilt and uncertainty.

"Forget what I said before. We're done here. I'm sorry I accused you. We're done here."

John stared at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

He felt, rather than saw Sherlock lean in close to him. "You can't drive, John."

"Well, I know that. I was trying to remind you but you wouldn't listen. Oh."

It dawned on him then what Sherlock had proven. He didn't know the first thing about driving a car. He couldn't possibly have driven away from a crime scene without knowing how to drive.

"It's fine, Dimmock. You were just doing your job."

"Still feel like a bloody arse. Sorry, John."

Did it bother John that police believed him capable of murder? Yes. Did his work for the NSA end up being a small catastrophe in his lifetime? A bit. Had it all ended up okay? Yes. Sherlock hadn't really been dead and plenty of lives had been saved through his involvement and dismantling of the government's super soldier project.

There was a woman in his life who loved him and he loved her. He wouldn't have to worry about getting kidnapped or getting hurt or visiting crime scenes where people had already become victims. And Sherlock was never going to love him. It was never going to be. Love turned out to be enough to keep his leg from hurting, just like adrenaline succeeded in accomplishing. Love would be more than enough for him now. It would have to be.

"It's fine. It's all fine."

///

For the next week, John spent most of his free time writing letters to the families he'd made victims during his work for the NSA. Nearly all of his targets' deaths were faked, made to appear like murder, when in actuality he had induced comas and placed them safely away in hospital. He'd still taken them from their homes and families, temporarily ripping them from their lives, all for the sake of maintaining his cover. That job was over now, most of the people returned to their lives while Mycroft wrapped up the investigation into unlawful acts committed by Myra Jones and her people. John felt he owed the affected families a written apology for bringing them trouble at the very least. It was when he was finishing the last batch of letters that he addressed Sherlock directly.

"So you went after the Woman."

John watched as Sherlock put down the violin and moved to sit in his chair. He continued to sit in his own chair to observe the other. He figured Sherlock wouldn't care. Sure they had good times together but the other man was always about his work. He'd been fine before him. This would hardly break him. Probably wouldn't even bother him. Yeah, that's what he'd kept telling himself the whole week.

"Yes." Sherlock told him.

"But you didn't find her."

"She didn't want to be found."

"But she did give you the information you needed to solve the case and get back in time to save me."

"Yes."

"Mycroft didn't know the two of you were being tracked by the same cops you were working to unveil though."

Instead of providing a straight answer, he made a noise somewhere between agreeing and disagreeing. Then seemed to think of something to say after all.

"Mycroft didn't know our lead was the Woman either. Shows you how much he doesn't know."

"Mhm. But you didn't know about the tracking. Neither one of you did."

Sherlock grumbled and John laughed, poking him teasingly. But shit if Sherlock couldn't see right through him.

"You should be angry."

He shrugged. "Well I'm not."

"I've been secretly meeting with my brother about your case since you almost died."

"I worked some cases on my own when I thought you were dead that nearly got me killed. It's a good thing you cared enough to work my case and dig into my activities. You do a better job of solving cases. You always have."

Sherlock was giving him that piercing stare. Those blue eyes were looking right through him. John swallowed and shifted in his seat, settling for holding onto his kneecaps as though they would help him get through this moment. His friend noticed. Of course he did.

"You have something you want to say."

"Yeah."

Silence fell between them. He'd spent most of his life never knowing Sherlock Holmes. The years he'd spent with the man, then thinking he'd lost him, getting him back, realizing he was in love with the stupid fool, realizing his loving him would never amount to anything, had led him to this night seated across from Sherlock. He wondered if his latest rendezvous with Moriarty had led to this happening. He wondered if he was just making excuses for himself. John thought back to that morning, two nights prior.

_Jim was trying to change John's mind about him. The man wasn't even trying to be coy or manipulative about it. He'd explained to John how he'd had five of his associates killed in order to limit the kind of business he would take in from then on. That it had been done for John. After hearing this news, he'd recoiled from Moriarty, pushing his chair back from the cafe table as far as possible without being too obvious._

_"You think that's what I'd want you to do? Kill people for me?"_

_Moriarty frowned. "Of course not. It's in my nature to... Listen, John, I mean to say I want you to understand I will no longer be the man I was. I will..try to be better."_

_"You like what you do. You take joy in other people's pain!"_

_"But I don't want to!"_

_John stared at him. Jim looked distraught, vulnerable, and uncertain. He didn't know if he could believe him. There was so much bad in the history between them._

_"I do hope you can be a better man, Moriarty. I can't be the one you rely on to help you do that though. I use up all of my strength and energy to keep myself going and to help the people that really need help. You, you're a victim of your own mind. It's up to you to do better. You and Sherlock are alike in that way."_

_Moriarty's eyes flashed dangerously, expression darkening. He held his tongue and John suspected it was taking everything for him to do so. Now was the time to sever his ties with the criminal mastermind for good. This had to happen._

_He stiffened consciously, making himself rigid and emotionless. "I know what you fear most, Moriarty."_

_"What are you doing, John?"_

_"Just remember that I know what you fear. Left alone, abandoned, locked away in a mental institute was the worst period of your life. I'll make sure it happens again if you don't leave me alone when I go. You leave Sherlock alone too."_

_"This isn't you, John. You'll come to realize what I mean to you, one day."_

_John got up from his seat, left the cafe, and didn't look back. He was letting Jim go, along with this chosen life of his. He'd made up his mind. This was the right decision._

He was drawn from his thoughts when he noticed Sherlock was continuing to wait expectantly for him to speak. The patience wore out quickly enough. He was never known for his patience. Nope. Nobody had ever called Sherlock a patient man.

"Oh just say it John. I can tell you have something weighing on your mind. Get it out."

"I'm going away, Sherlock. Moving out, away from here."

He'd said it. He'd gotten it out. Now, to deal with the reaction it brought.

"What?"

"I've met someone."

"What?"

Okay, was Sherlock not hearing him? He knew he was, which meant..he didn't believe him?

"Met-someone. I'm marrying her, moving into a place with her... Not in London."

"John-"

"She's lovely," he interrupted before Sherlock could say anything real.

"Um, sorry, what?"

"It's Mary. She's a lovely woman. I love her and I'm going to stay with her now."

"You say that as though you're trying to convince yourself of its truth."

Now John was getting angry. Sherlock was doubting what he was telling him. Why? It was annoying and so not where this conversation should be headed.

"It is the truth. I'm trying to get it through that thick head of yours that I'm leaving and-"

"You don't want me to contact you."

Oh, so maybe Sherlock did understand what he was saying. Maybe his disbelief was stemming from his desire not to believe him. Somehow, Sherlock already knowing what he wanted didn't make it better or easier. In fact, it seemed to make it more difficult.

John turned his gaze downwards, away from Sherlock. "Yes. Because I can't do this any more."

"Do what?"

He was giving John the look, the look that said he couldn't comprehend why John didn't see more clearly. It was Sherlock who wasn't getting what he was trying to say. Maybe it was because some of it was bullshit. He pushed all of his thoughts aside.

"This, with you. It's too much."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock growled, growing frustrated.

"I just need a change. I need to get out!"

"You say it like you mean this life, but that's not what you mean at all, is it?"

Did Sherlock know he loved him? Did he know that was a big part of why he was moving away? If he knew, that was worse, because it meant he'd have to deal with knowing Sherlock knew and didn't feel the same. He had to divert that train of thinking so he wouldn't have to face rejection.

"Your cases and experiments always came first. You got bored with me. Don't pretend otherwise."

"Is that really what you think? You're wrong. You're on my mind, constantly." Sherlock met his eyes. "It's annoying actually."

He smiled at that, murmuring, "Suppose it doesn't matter much now."

"John..."

"Sherlock." He mustered up everything he had left to look his dear friend in the eyes. "I'm just..not the same."

He got up and left, gone to Mary's for the night. It was a coward's move, but he couldn't face Sherlock. The man would be perfectly fine without him. He'd been fine before. Well..except for the occasional use of drugs and other reckless behavior that threatened his life from time to time. He couldn't think those thoughts. Sherlock was a stronger man than when he'd first met him. He was brilliant too. He would be fine.

Another few days and he'd completely removed himself from 221b. He got a job at a hospital in Cardiff and saw Mary much more often. She was obviously happier and so was he. He married her a month later. It was a good life.


	19. The Gravity of Love

_One Year Later_

 

"What do you think about a baby?"

He choked on his morning tea. Mary giggled and sat herself in his lap, wrapping her arms around him and removing the cup from his hand with ease. After setting the tea cup on the table, she returned her attentions to him. She ran her fingers through his hair like she knew he liked, and he gazed into her eyes, like he knew _she_ liked.

"A baby, huh?"

"Yes. We could name him John Jr? Or..your middle name-"

"He held up his hand. "Let's not go there."

She laughed and he laughed a little, too. Then she suggested a name that he'd really rather not have heard.

"Ooh, James is a lovely name. What do you think of James?"

"Not the greatest memories when it comes to the name James."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Mary knew all about James Moriarty. A man he had not seen or heard from or about for over a year. When he'd requested of both of his geniuses to leave him alone, it had been Moriarty he thought the most probable to break his wish. Instead, Sherlock was the one to come see him, intercepting him just after he'd left Tom Kingston at the university for lunch. This encounter occurred when he'd been gone from London for three months.

_"John."_

_John's head had been filled with thoughts about the conversation had with Tom over the man's lunch break. Since his move, he'd continued to correspond on a semi-regular basis with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and even Donovan. Nothing work-related, though it was impossible to avoid Sherlock-related when it came to Mrs. Hudson. She didn't understand why he'd left and truly believed he would be returning to Baker Street eventually. He tried to explain London wasn't his home any longer, but Mrs. Hudson believed what she liked. His relief over Donovan's recent decision to seek out a therapist for her increased propensity for resorting to anger was one topic covered with Kingston, and it was what was on his mind when he heard his name being said._

_He turned, pushing down the warm feeling that instantly filled him when he heard that voice. John made sure his face became stone, giving nothing away but perhaps a look that told Sherlock he was not happy to see him. This was what he'd wanted. This was what he had told Sherlock he wanted; distance._

_"Sherlock. What are you doing here?"_

_"I... I wanted to see you."_

_John swallowed what he wanted to say, and prepared something else in its place. "I asked you not to."_

_"I miss you."_

_He clenched his fists. What the hell was this? He'd given him opportunity to stop him from leaving and Sherlock hadn't bothered. Sherlock didn't love him the way he wanted so getting away from him was the best move. A life with a woman who did love him was the best move._

_"Someday everything is going to be alright." Sherlock told him. "Things will be better..as they should be."_

_He sighed. "What does that even mean?"_

_Sherlock was averting his eyes, looking anywhere but at John. What was that all about? Things will be as they should be... What? Did the man always have to speak in his own language, the language that nobody else understood?_

_"Do you love her?"_

_John stared hard at him and spoke the honest truth. "I do."_

_Fuck. Sherlock was staring back at him, like he was reading his soul itself. He shifted awkwardly where he was standing on the side of the road. They didn't feel quite like strangers just yet, but he could tell already, they would be. A few years on and they would be perfect strangers. That was a disquieting thought._

_The taller man stuck his hands in his pockets and started to turn away from John, back the way he'd come. He didn't see a car but there had to be a cab or a rental waiting for him. How else would he have gotten all the way to the university? John started to turn away himself but then he noticed Sherlock turning back toward him. He waited._

_Sherlock's gaze swept over his entirety and then his face one more time. "How did it end up like this?"_

_John only shook his head and shrugged, shoulders slumping in a sort of defeated motion. He didn't know how it had come to this either. He just knew this was what had to happen if he didn't want his heart to completely break from leaving Sherlock behind._

"John?"

He broke out of his thoughts. "What?"

"John, you went somewhere else. Is everything okay?"

He smiled at her. "Of course it is. I'm with you."

"Are you?"

That was unusual. He looked back at her, maintaining his sincere smile. "Yes, I am. I love you."

She started smiling but her eyes were welling up with tears. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong.

"Today, I believe you."

Mary slid off his lap and walked out of the room. He watched her go, knowing full well why she was upset and his role in it. A year together they'd been happy and content. They each of them deserved to be happy and they'd found it with each other. At least he'd thought they had.

It was a good life. But something was missing from it. He never stopped feeling it. His life with Sherlock, had been a great life. His life with Sherlock, had filled a void. Life with Mary was good. But life with Mary still felt empty. It was a lie. Every time she looked at him with that sad, faraway gaze, when she could sense him pulling away at times, never quite giving all of himself to her, he should have known. She wasn't an idiot. Mary knew, but his lie was so good, he didn't see how transparent he'd become as time went on.

///

"What do you think?"

"I think you're fully capable of thinking for yourself."

"I know... It's just..you always seem to know just what to do and right now, I'm at a loss."

Professor Kingston pushed his glasses further up his nose and leaned forward on his elbows. John knew that look. Tom was trying to read him. It was the same kind of look Sherlock and Jim would give him when they really wanted to know what was going on in his head. That was one thing he hadn't missed in the year he'd moved away from London. There were too many thoughts in his head as it were. He didn't need other people working their way into his mind.

"She loves me." John felt like he had to validate his position here somehow. The sentimentality leaked in by accident. "Her eyes can be so blue when she tells me she loves me. The deepest blue I've ever seen. She deserves to be happy."

"And how bright do his eyes look when his attention is fixed solely on you?"

John's expression darkened. "Even a year on, I still think of that bloody idiot and what he would think in any given situation at least 90% of the time."

"You need to see the reality of your situation."

John groaned and dropped his head in his hands. Tom was always talking about the "reality of things" and how he needed to understand situations in his life by recognizing the facts, getting down to the truth of the matter. In many ways, he was similar to Sherlock. How did he wind up befriending and gravitating to these highly intelligent characters? It was a lot harder to get them to agree with him when they insisted on acting so logical.

"Tom," he practically grunted out. "This, Cardiff, is my life now."

"Is that the reality?"

"Wha?"

Kingston straightened up in his seat and smiled rather smugly at him. "Seems to me you haven't left your past behind. You forget I've met Mary. Your wife is not blind. She can see you, John. The question you have to ask yourself, is if you can see her."

"I don't think-" John stopped himself.

He was stuck. Denial would probably be a more accurate term, but since he was busy being in denial, he ended up wordless. Tom seemed to read this off of him and repeated the point he was making.

"Do you see her?"

///

John sat staring across the table at his wife in disbelief. He hadn't seen this coming. Maybe he should have. Didn't change the fact that he had been caught utterly off guard.

"I'm sorry, John. I can't do this anymore."

"I know what you're thinking, how you're feeling, but-"

"No!"

He shrank back slightly at the conviction from which she spoke the word, startled by the sudden increase in volume.

"You say you know, but you don't. You say you will do better, but you won't. How could you? I can't let you keep doing this to yourself."

"Is that why you brought me here? Didn't want me making a scene?"

John stood from his chair abruptly, making a loud scraping noise and catching a few glances his way. Another scan across the restaurant and then he was looking back at Mary, who was standing herself now.

"Do you love me?"

He'd been expecting the question and was prepared for that much at least. "I do. Yes, I do. I love you, Mary. Why can't you seem to believe me?"

"I believe you, John. You do love me, but not in the way you love him."

"Who?! What? You mean Sherlock. Sherlock?! I chose you over him. I left my best friend behind to be with you. I chose you!"

"That's why I have to leave you, John. You're a good man and you'd never leave me because you are. I know you're being completely honest when you say you love me, sometimes, and that's why it hurts so much." She put some money down on the table and leaned down to place a chaste kiss on his lips. "I love you, John Watson. Don't wait too long to tell him how you feel, okay?"

She apparently wasn't expecting an answer. She left the restaurant, glancing back at him before slipping out the door. He watched her go, utterly lost and stunned by the conversation that had just taken place. John felt so stupid for being surprised about this happening. Maybe it was because of how badly he hadn't wanted it to happen. He did love Mary, even if it wasn't enough love to keep her with him.

"John."

He practically jumped out of his skin when the man called his name. The very familiar voice that had just spoken his name. A man who must have been watching him to arrive at his table in such a timely manner.

Jim Moriarty slid into the seat Mary had vacated mere seconds ago.

"Hello John."

"Oh fuck."

"Well that's pretty fast but I'm game."

He rolled his eyes. "Why are you watching me? Isn't your obsession with Sherlock? Go and bother him."

"I've done that. Now, frankly, it's become boring. You've never become boring."

His teeth clenched together, jaw tightening to a painful degree. Mary had just left him. He was not in the mood for games, from anyone.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"Please, call me Jim."

He slammed his fist down on the table, voice rising in volume beyond his control. "What are you playing at?"

The other man simply smiled cheerfully across the table. What in the blazes did he want with him? Why would he come here? Why now?

"Is Sherlock okay?"

The sigh was purposefully audible and frustrated. Moriarty was becoming impatient and that never boded well for anybody. Leaning back in his chair, the criminal mastermind regarded him silently for a long moment before speaking again.

"Must you always speak of that man? I have better things to do than completely obsess over a solitary man."

John couldn't prevent the start of a laugh, only managing to cut it off with a wipe across his mouth. He placed his hands flat on the table in front of him, finding himself wondering if he should be worried. There was always trying to run, not that it was his style.

Moriarty wasn't even a little fooled by his attempt to conceal the scoffing laugh. He decided to play it straight.

"Sorry, Moriarty, but you completely obsess over things. Too much overuse of the brain can be quite unhealthy. You might have, but I haven't forgotten what you did to Sherlock."

The air about them almost seemed to grow still as the man opposite leaned forward in his chair. His hands folded together in front of him and he looked at John, carefully.

"Please, call me Jim."

Warning bells went off in his head. Jim had said the request differently this time. He'd used a tone that was low, serious. For anyone who knew the man, it meant comply or be sorry, and Moriarty didn't mess around.

John leaned back in his chair, if only to put a bit more space between them. "What do you want, Jim?"

"It's more what I can do for you."

"Oh?"

That didn't exactly sound bad. It sounded inviting actually.

"You'll be needing a place to stay, won't you?"

How in the he-? Oh, nevermind. He didn't think he wanted to know how Moriarty always seemed to know the things he knew. And even though it was probably, most definitely a bad idea, it appealed to a part of him where Jim was going with this conversation.

"As a matter of fact I do."

Sometimes it was best not to dwell on thoughts too much.


	20. Affinity

On the fourth day of the second week of his stay at Moriarty's apartment, John gave in to his more basic desires with a man he denied to like. When he first came to Moriarty's place, the man insisted on taking care of retrieving his possessions from Mary's apartment and routinely engaged him in rounds of chess during the days of his temporary residence. He also kept him occupied with marathons of mystery or criminal shows, and didn't indulge in the obnoxious habit of revealing discrepancies like a certain other. All the time they didn't discuss his failed marriage and the impending divorce which John knew he must initiate sooner rather than later. These were primarily what filled the time when his new roommate was present, before he decided a little sex never hurt anybody.

Two days into nights a bit more sexually explicit than he was used to, brought them to finally engaging in more familiar types of conversation again. Familiar didn't necessarily mean comfortable or welcoming. Because he didn't like Jim. He didn't.

“The thrill of the hunt, fear of consequence should you slip up, and the danger that comes with the job. You enjoy it. Makes you feel truly alive.” Jim murmured softly. “Why did you believe you could give it up for a more domestic life?”

Immediately John rolled away, out of Jim's arms and to the other side of the bed. The sheets felt cool and uninviting. He laid flat on his back to stare at the ceiling above.

“I can give you danger, John. I can give you danger in spades.”

The man said it like a love proposal. It made him want to roll his eyes in irritation at the utter lack of understanding the man was showing him. John didn't dare.

Instead, he thought carefully before replying.

“You once warned me to stay away from you. Maybe I should.”

Moriarty sat up in the bed, leaning his back against the headboard and turning a speculative gaze onto John even as he smiled widely.

“Now why would you go and say a thing like that?”

“Hope you don't kill me for saying this, but I don't think you're good for me.”

It was relief that flooded through him when Jim let out a short, barking laugh. “Aw John, are you claiming to be using me to get over your Mary? Are you claiming you don't care about me?”

John breathed out slowly. “Maybe.”

“And you think this is wise? Confessing such a thing to a man like me? Someone who one could say..has certain personality issues...?”

He sat up to face Moriarty in a better position than on his back.

“You and me, together, is never going to happen.”

Jim cocked his head partially to the side. “Oh?”

His eyes narrowed and he glared at the other man. “Do you got a problem with me saying no to you?”

The smile stayed in place. “Is that what you're doing?”

John let his emotions bubble up to the surface. He let his thoughts and feelings about everything in his life, good and bad, surge forward. And he kept his head working long enough to let out the smart thing to say. Thoughts he'd had swimming around for a while.

“I think you like me too much to do the things you once did to me. I think you may not fully understand why the things you did and sometimes still do are wrong, because your head is built wrong. And I think you are capable of good.”

“I think you talk too much.”

He laughed at that, a slight chuckle emerging from his throat. James Moriarty was the one who loved to hear himself talk. He was impressed by his own cleverness and delighted in outsmarting others. Jim was a criminal, a murderer. He shouldn't be here with him.

“I can't stay here, Jim. I love Mary, but I was a liar with her. It was never entirely real. I became someone I'm not.”

“Hm...”

Well, a non-answer to such statements was certainly worrisome. John felt the discomfort growing, courage fading. He could be mistaken in his belief that Jim had a growing affection for him. A man like Moriarty could easily be misread. Perhaps that was what had happened here and he would be killed for speaking his mind.

“Get dressed.”

He frowned as the man slid off the bed to the open closet. He snatched up a plain gray t-shirt and blue jeans hung up in the closet next to a half dozen duplicate and expensive looking black suits. “Jim?”

“Clothes, John.”

Sighing, he did as he was told. Jim had to have his way. For coming so far from the nightmare of their first meeting, to whatever it was they were now, some things still seemed very much the same.

When they were both finished getting dressed, Jim grabbed his phone from off the counter and began texting. He didn't even look up as he motioned for John to follow him out the door. Against his better judgment, he followed after him.

///

“Sherlock Holmes? What do you want?”

He strode through the open doorway, barely acknowledging the surprised woman looking at him. He scanned the finer details of the room he'd just entered. His eyes alighted upon a couple of empty boxes shoved against the far wall.

“He's not here.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at her. He took in the defeated stance and the far away eyes. He was bad with personal emotion, he was pretty good at estimating and measuring the emotion in other people when he wanted to do it. She was sad, but oddly, seemed to be rather together for what had occurred.

“John's moved out.”

“Yes. For more than a week now. He hasn't called you?”

He'd been distracted, staring at those tell-tale boxes which informed him John hadn't had enough belongings here to fill all of the provided boxes. Could this mean his heart had never been in it? Was he actually contemplating the manner of another person's heart? He broke out of his own mind long enough to look briefly in her general direction to respond.

“What? No. No, we haven't.. No.”

His thoughts wrapped around and around and swept the present away.

_“Wake up, Sherlock. What are you doing? We both know how John cares for you and yet here we are, having this little chat.”_

_This was odd. The Woman, calling him to warn, an unnecessary warning, that the Professor criminal had an interest in Sherlock Holmes. Well of course he did. Who didn't these days? The vultures calling themselves journalists loved to circle the station or his apartment every other month, should the case at hand be deemed high-profile and newsworthy._

_If that weren't peculiar enough, she was choosing to use the rest of their conversation on exposing her curiosity over the loss of his blogger and consulting partner._

_“There was a brief..something between John and I...”_

_Sherlock felt like slamming the phone in his hand against the wall. What something? It was nothing or John would have said something. She was far to flirtatious for her own good and was exaggerating. How outrageous for her to say such an admittance when she attracted trouble by the boatload._

_“When you were playing the part of his informant. When you allowed him to endanger himself in a job that asked too much of him. When-”_

_“Yes, yes. Jealousy, Sherlock. Do you see? It's obvious how much you care for him in turn.”_

_He pushed any possible emotion to the back of his head and replied with retained logic._

_“Some have thought me infatuated with you once as well. John thought it. How do you know it isn't about you that I..hesitate?”_

_She was ready for him as well._

_“You've never come after me, never waited for me. Yet you wait for him. You always wait for him.”_

_“How would you know?”_

_A smooth laugh came over the line before her response. “I have my ways.”_

_He was growing frustrated. This conversation was becoming more and more tedious and dull._

_“Look, if you must know, I've told John I loved him and nothing happened.”_

_“Did you really?”_

_She sounded as though she didn't believe him. She sounded amused. He was getting angry._

_“Well, something that was just the same.”_

_“Oh Sherlock.”_

_He kept himself silent. There was nothing conducive to this conversation that he wanted to say to her._

_“I should go. These days, I have to keep moving much more than usual. I've attracted unwanted attention from various unseemly parties. But listen, John is the best friend you've ever had and you know it. Don't lose it just because you're too stubborn to attempt normal speaking rituals. Goodbye.”_

Mary must have mistook his silence for uncertainty or concern. She didn't seem to remember about how he often got lost in his own head. John never forgot about that. He kept Sherlock functioning better than ever with reminders of how one should behave, tolerance of some of his more obtuse habits, and he actually liked him. How could John have left him? Where was he?

“He doesn't hate you, Sherlock. There's no ill-will here.”

“He's..with Moriarty. He went to Moriarty. How could he go to that man?”

The derisive tone which he applied to the end of his question made it quite clear it was rhetorical. Sherlock removed his phone and dialed her number with barely a glance at the device. In the meantime, Mary was staring questioningly at him.

“Moriarty? James Moriarty? The master criminal who nearly killed him loads of times?”

Hmm.. Maybe she hadn't been curious, more in shock. Just as quickly, the shock passed over her and incredible calm replaced it. How did she manage that? When he allowed emotions to affect him, it was never so easy to change them at will. This was why it was better not to feel.

“John was never one to have people hate him. Still, it's difficult to imagine such a..friendship.”

Difficult to imagine? That was putting it gently. He focused on the other woman, the one demanding for his attention on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Hello? Sherlock? Sherlock! Sherlock? You called me. Hello?”

“Molly.”

“Sherlock. Hi! What is it? Is something wrong?”

“You dated Jim Moriarty for a time.”

Mary turned away from the bundle of empty boxes. She looked at him and then the phone at his ear contemplatively. No doubt wondering who Molly might be in relation to him or John.

“Ji-Moriarty? Well, yes. You know it. But-I didn't know who he was. He was completely someone else around me I swear. I- Why are you asking about it? What's this about?”

“Who is that? Who's Molly?”

He turned his shoulders to block her voice out, to hear only the woman he was currently interested in hearing. Sherlock realized he didn't know what he'd meant to ask. Rather, he knew, but he didn't want to ask any more. He was letting his emotions rule him far too much. He'd never been like this. He didn't want to be. It hurt.

Molly was speaking his name from the phone. And John's wife didn't take too kindly to being ignored. She used her words as a weapon, speaking them sharp and bitingly.

“Why do you think he asked Jim to come get his things?”

Sherlock shifted partially in her direction, blocking out Molly completely now. He waited for the inevitable follow-up.

“He called this Jim, because he knew he'd be there for him, and he knew you wouldn't.”

All he gave was further silence.

“Just because he left me, doesn't mean he'll go to you. You don't treat him right. You're stubborn, and cold, and.. an idiot! You've messed him up more than the military ever did. You-” She cut herself off, and Sherlock turned around to see why.

She stared at him, a bit wide-eyed. She seemed stunned and confused. It appeared she had just come to an understanding about something.

“You love him, don't you?”

“Hello?”

Right. Molly. He hung up on her. Calling was a mistake. It was weak and unnecessary.

“I shouldn't have come here. I.. I'm sorry.”

He walked to the door without another word. He wasn't weak. He'd always been a solitary person, even if it wasn't truly better that way. It was nice having someone to rely on while it lasted. But John was right. In these kinds of matters he usually was. Sherlock hadn't always been forthcoming and it had driven his flatmate away. John made his choice and he was going to have to deal with it. Mary was calling his name. He didn't want to see the look of loss in her eyes that he knew was there, always there. More importantly, he didn't want her to see the loss in his own eyes. He didn't look back.

///

Moriarty took him to a residence out in the country. He had his driver park down the road, leaving the employee with the car while he and John walked up to the house. When Jim veered from the driveway to walk around to the back, curiosity got him questioning this road trip.

“Where are we? Whose house does this belong to?”

Jim spread his arms outward to indicate the backyard of the house before him.

“There was a case in the news some time ago. Two little girls went missing.”

He knew about that case. Three months past, two kids, nine and seven, disappeared from the park near their home in Doncaster. It was still classified as a missing persons case, but he didn't know much more than that. There was a rumor passing for common belief nowadays that the biological father had fled to America with them over a custody dispute.

“I remember. Sisters.”

There was no response to his remembrance. Jim wandered a ways across the yard, coming to stop by a small square garden of daisies and tulips. He finally lowered his raised arms and took measure of John's body language before speaking.

“They are buried here, the both of them.”

“No,” he breathed out his automatic response without thinking.

“A bad man took them away from the park. Gave them drugged candies and put them in his van when they felt sick. Promised to take them home and brought them here instead. He did bad things to them for over a week; he did so love to see all that blood.”

John's eyes were staring holes in the bright green grass away from the flower garden. “Stop.”

“He did things I wouldn't ever dream to do to anyone. And he taped it all to sell for profit online as well.”

“Jim, please.”

The man scuffed the soil beneath his shoe but didn't listen.

“They died horribly. And they weren't the first.”

“Stop it!”

Dark eyes rose to meet his wide and desperate ones, now silently pleading for the words to just stop.

“Twenty years he's been at it, and he's planning to do it again.”

When Jim pulled out the gun from his jacket pocket, he took a quick step away, unsure of what was happening. But the weapon didn't point at him. Instead it was turned about so the handle was offered to him. He fixed his confused gaze onto Moriarty.

“Kiddie rapist. A man with twisted inclinations, wicked thoughts. And he gives in to those urges regularly because he can get away with it. I may allow harm to come to a child, John, but never like that.”

Silently he filled in that Moriarty had no problem torturing and raping him for a time. He'd blown innocents to bits and encouraged murder regularly. The man clearly had dark thoughts of his own which he entertained too. But he apparently drew the line at child rape and torture. A lot of criminals did. So James Moriarty did have a heart and soul in there somewhere.

“Go on then. The man lives alone in this house. Stop him before he can lay a finger on another innocent kid.”

Three quick strides forward and Jim was directly in front of him. His arm was lifted up, the gun shoved into his hand. John used his right to push the man away.

He turned toward the house. From here, it just looked like an ordinary house. He didn't feel any presence of evil, nothing to hint at the darkness lurking inside. For a moment, he contemplated whether he was being lied to. Maybe the other man was winding him up, hoping to watch him go.

If all he said was true, this man could possibly hurt another child. It would be better for the world if he was no longer in it. John was no rogue killer though. He couldn't just coldly murder someone who wasn't endangering somebody in that instant. Or could he?

The man deserved to die. Without conscious thought, he was moving closer to the back door. He noticed when he was nearly upon the back step and stopped himself from moving further. What was he doing? This wasn't him.

His shoulders sagged and he lowered the gun, unwilling to go further. Turning to tell Moriarty as much, he nearly jumped out of his skin. The man was standing by his elbow, hand outstretched.

John returned the weapon to him, knowing it was what he was to do.

“See. You don't have to worry about becoming like ol' Jim if you stick with me. You're still entirely yourself.”

He gaped at him. This was the whole reason he'd been brought out here. This wasn't a game or a test to see what he would do. This was an opportunity to let him see that he wouldn't become a bad man for enjoying the company of a self-proclaimed bad man. Doing a thing like that seemed rather conscientious and self-less to John.

“If you weren't,” Jim added. “I might have to kill you, Johnny.”

Moriarty continued to sound dead serious in his speech. The changeable man that he was, John knew he may very well mean it. The warm feelings evaporated and he found he couldn't quite look at the other man. It wasn't because he feared James Moriarty or even that he was unsure about what he felt. No, it was because he knew exactly what he was feeling and it left him voiceless.

“Don't ever go changing on me."

John barely felt the lips as they pressed against the side of his forehead. He was busy thinking about how much he'd been living straightforward for a year. Mary had been the smart choice, the safe choice. There hadn't been danger with her, he'd been happy, and it was okay. But she didn't want him if he loved anyone else. And he did and he was sorry for that.

They returned to the car in silence, John deciding to keep his eyes focused on what was ahead. This was impossible. Everything he'd tried to convince himself of in the past, empty beliefs. All his words from before meant nothing anymore. Not now.

He saw Jim slide across the seat in front of him from his peripheral vision. He turned away from the window of the moving vehicle as Moriarty settled into his new position beside him.

“What's wrong?”

Shaking his head, he opted to say nothing. His gaze found the hands in his lap and stayed there.

“You're looking sad, Johnny. Do you miss Sherlock?”

He took a moment to just stare ahead. So many times that man got annoyed at the mention of Sherlock Holmes on his part. What did that mean when he was the one to bring him up? He could guess. Jim knew what was what but didn't need to directly say it. Which meant as usual, with either one of the geniuses, there was no point in lying.

“No... It's just..you're a criminal, Jim. You kill people.”

Of course he had an instant answer to that.

“Technically, I get other people to do it for me, or encourage others to give it a go.”

He kept his gaze rooted to the empty seat straight ahead. He would not admit what he was feeling. He would not admit that he cared more than he should for the man next to him. Besides, he didn't even know what was going to happen next in his life. He didn't know where he would end up now that Mary didn't want him. What about Sherlock? How was Sherlock? Probably still solving cases wondrously.

That particular man wasn't what saddened him, at least not today. He wondered if Moriarty was even capable of love. It was a bad idea either way. It just couldn't be.

When a single tear began to track down his cheek, from welled up eyes he'd failed to notice until then, he wiped it away, embarrassed. John audibly sighed.

“Yeah, I miss Sherlock.”

He wasn't fooling anyone. They both knew it was a lie. At least, it wasn't the reason he was crying quietly and pathetically in this moment.

A hand took his and John very nearly shook it off. But he was tired of pulling away. He would never let himself care about Moriarty any more than he should. He was already dangerously close to crossing that line. He wouldn't let it happen.

“You'll return to 221b Baker Street tomorrow night,” announced Jim. “You need that moron right now to keep you busy and distracted.”

Jim wrapped his free arm around him and he melted against his side. John squeezed the hand he grasped. He was sad and pathetic and lonely and so bloody tired of being lonely!

“I'll be around whenever you need me.” Moriarty told him, and then followed his words with a trademark smirk.

Oh great... The smirk told him Jim wasn't likely to be all that introvert about the whole thing.


End file.
